LOVE  LETTERS 

OF 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


LOVE  LETTERS 

OF 

• 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  DOFOBS 

CHICAGO 

1907 


?S  188.1 
A3 


v,  I 
MAIM 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
WILLIAM  K.  BIXBY 


INTRODUCTORY 

IN  "Hawthorne  and  His  Wife"  and  "Memo- 
ries  of  Hawthorne"  both  Julian  Hawthorne 
and    his   sister,    Rose    Hawthorne    Lathrop, 
have  given  citations  from  the  letters  written  by 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne  to  Miss  Sophia  Peabody 
during  their  years  of  courtship.     These  excerpts 
were  free  and  irregular,  often,  and  evidently  with 
s|>ecific  intent,  taken  out  of  order  and  run  together 
as  if  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  a  point  or  em 
phasizing  a  particular  phase  of  character.    While 
the  extracts  were  sufficiently  numerous  for  the 
object  desired,  and  while  they  gave  an  agreeable 
glimpse  of  an  interesting  period  of  Hawthorne's 
life,  they  were  necessarily  too  -fragmentary,  too 
lacking  in  continuity,  to  convey  any  adequate  idea 
of  the  simplicity,  beauty,  humor  and  tenderness 
of  the  letters,  even  considered  in  the  matter  of  a 
literary  style. 


273 


The  original  letters  were  acquired  by  Mr.  Wil 
liam  K.  Bixby  of  St.  Louis,  and,  at  the  urgent 
request  of  the  Society  of  the  Dofobs,  of  which  he 
is  a  highly  esteemed  and  honored  member,  turned 
over  to  the  society  with  the  understanding  that 
they  should  be  published  for  presentation  to  mem 
bers  only.  It  was  specified  also  that  great  care 
should  be  exercised  in  going  over  the  letters,  that 
no  apparent  confidences  should  be  violated  and 
that  all  private  and  personal  references,  which 
might  wound  the  feelings  of  the  living  or  seem  to 
speak  ill  of  the  dead,  should  be  eliminated.  It  is 
indeed  remarkable  that  in  the  large  number  of 
letters  presented  there  was  practically  nothing 
which  called  for  elision,  nothing  in  the  lighter 
mood  which  breathed  a  spirit  beyond  the  innocent 
limits  of  good-natured  banter.  The  work  of  the 
editors  was  consequently  easy  and  grateful,  and 
the  task  one  of  delight. 

It  is  not  claimed  that  these  love  letters,  so- 
called,  comprise  the  entire  correspondence  on 
Hawthorne's  part  between  Miss  Peabody  and 
himself  during  the  three-and-one-half  'years  of 

viii 


courtship.      Naturally   a   series  of  letters  begun 
sixty -eight  years  ago,  with  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
a   shitting  life,   would   not  be  preserved   intact. 
But  while  some  letters  have  been  lost  or  destroyed, 
and  others  may  not  have  been  permitted  for  one 
reason  or  another  to  leave  the  possession  of  the 
family,   the  continuity  here  preserved  is  practi 
cally  as  complete  as  could  be  desired  and  fully 
illustrative  of  the  qualities  which  make  them  so 
worthy  of  publication.     In  giving  these  letters  to 
its  members  the  society  has  conformed  strictly  to 
the  exactions  of  the  manuscript  save  in  a  few  cases 
}>erhaps  where  haste  on  the  part  of  the  writer 
omitted  a  word,  slightly  obscuring  the  sense.     It 
has  been  deemed  advisible  also  to  omit  all  notes 
or  paragraphs  of  explanation.     Happily  the  let 
ters    are    sufficiently    intelligible    without    such 
notes,  and  the  conclusion  has  been  reached  that 
no  needed  purjx>se  can  be  served  by  minor  ex 
planatory    details    relating   to    individuals   men 
tioned  or  incidents  suggested.    It  has  been  thought 
best  as  well  to  add  a  few  letters  extending  beyond 
the  period  of  courtship.    No  defence  is  necessary, 


for  to  the  last  they  are  "love  letters*'  in  the  purest 
and  truest  sense  of  the  words.  This  will  be  vin 
dicated  in  the  perusal. 

In  selecting  two  letters  for  facsimile  reproduc 
tion  the  choice  has  fallen  upon  the  letter  from 
Brook  Farm  under  date  of  April  13, 1841,  and  that 
from  Salem  written  in  the  following  year.     Both 
illustrate  the  quiet,  quaint  humor  of  Hawthorne. 
In  the  Brook  Farm  letter  he  sketches  drily  his 
rhinly  veiled  impressions  of  the  community,  and 
herein    will    he   found    the    famous   reference   to 
"Miss  Fuller's  transcendental  heifer"  which  has  , 
fallen  little  short  of  immortality.     Writing  from 
the  old  home  in  Salem  he  makes  his  letter  conspic 
uous  by  the  fact  that  he  prophesies  banteringly 
—  doubtless  he  little  knew  how  truly— his  own 
coming  fame  and  the  public  craze  to  inspect  his 
belongings.    This  humorous  tribute  to  himself,  in 
its  mock,  self-satisfied  strain,  suggests  not  so  much 
the  mental  state  of  Horace  predicting  his  meta 
morphosis  and  immortality  as  the  good-natured 
prophecy  of  Burns  that  "you  may  expect  hence 
forth  to  see  my  birthday  inscribed  among  the  won- 


derful  events  in  the  Poor  Robin  and  Aberdeen 
Almanacks,  along  with  the  Black  Monday  and 
the  Battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge."  Horace,  Burns, 
Hawthorne  —  how  all  exceeded  their  predictions, 
whether  gravely  or  lightly  made! 

It  is  true  that  to  many  persons  of  sensibility  the 
thought  of  publishing  the  love  letters  of  men  and 
women  however  distinguished  or  in  the  public 
mind  is  repugnant.  It  seems  to  them  a  violation 
of  a  sacred  confidence,  a  wanton  exposure  of  a 
tenderness  not  intended  for  the  world  as  a  part  of 
its  literary  diversion.  The  objection  in  many  in 
stances  is  a  fair  one,  and  too  often  the  ob^gation 
of  delicacy  has  been  violated  and  the  dictates  of 
gentle  consideration  have  been  unheeded.  Of 
recent  years  more  persons  have  been  shocked  than 
gratified  by  the  exploitation  of  love  letters  of  fa 
mous  women  or  men,  and  by  the  ruthless  tearing 
away  of  the  veil  which  has  concealed  their  happy 
love  lite,  and  this  emotion  of  disapprobation  has* 
not  been  lessened  by  the  apparent  fact  that  a  sor 
did  motive  inspired  the  publication.  At  the  out 
set  such  impulse  of  disinclination  possessed  the 


gentleman  who  owns  the  Hawthorne  manuscript 
and  the  members  of  the  society  with  whom  he 
conversed  with  reference  to  its  appearance  in  type. 
It  tvas  only  after  the  letters  had  been  carefully 
read,  the  motive  governing  their  publication  seri 
ously  analyzed,  and  the  respectful  limits  of  their 
circulation  considered,  that  this  doubting  impulse 
vanishedA 

That  any  one  can  read  these  letters  without  a 
warmer,  closer  feeling  for  the  "shy,  grave  Haw 
thorne"  seems  impossible.     To  one  who  has  pe 
rused  them  in  manuscript,  transcription  and  proof 
sheets  there  conies  almost  a  conviction  that  he 
wrote  them  not  merely  for  the  woman  waiting  for 
the  day   when  pledges  should  be  sanctified,  but 
with   the  half  wish  *that  all   sympathetic  spirits 
might  see  him  and  know  him  as  he  was.    For  gaily 

he  s|>eaks  of  his  own  bashfulness  and  reserve; 

« 

hopefully  he  passes  beyond  the  drudgery  and  dis 
appointments  of  his  position  in  life  to  the  future 
which  allures  him;  bravely  he  rights  anxiety  and 
care;  with,  quaint  humor  and  lightness  of  touch 
he  pictures  the  scenes  around  that  amuse  and  in- 

xii 


terest  him.  And  when  in  loving  remembrance 
he  calls  for  the  "Dove,"  or  with  mock  seriousness 
chides  the  "naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne,"  a  strong 
affection  is  breathed  in  gentleness,  a  manly  ten 
derness  delights  in  every  line. 

And  whether  toiling  with  tie  measurer  in  the 
vessel's  hold,  or  chafing  with  -iim  in  the  somber- 
ness  of  the  custom  house,  sharing  now  his  relief 
from  distasteful  tasks  and  now  his  dreams  for  a 
happier  day,  the  reader  feels  the  spirit  of  the  past. 
And  above  all  the  shadowy  ghost liness  of  the 
threescore  years  seems  to  come  the  perfume  of  the 
apple  blossoms  that  fell  around  the  Wayside, 
with  the  gentle  graciousness  of  a  time  well  known 
to  all,  when  youth  and  love  and  hope  are  young. 


XIII 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Wednesday  Afternoon,  March  6th,  1839 
My  dearest  Sophie: 

I  had  a  parting  glimpse  of  you,  Monday  fore 

noon,  at  your  window  —  and  that  image  abides  by 

me,  looking  pale,  and  not  so  quiet  as  is  your  wont. 

T  have  reproached  myself  many  times  since,  be 

cause  I  did  not  show  my  face,  and  then  we  should 

both  have  smiled;  and  so  our  reminiscences  would 

have   been    sunny    instead   of   shadowy.     But    I 

believe  I  was  so  intent  on  seeing  you,  that  1  forgot 

ill  about  the  desirableness  of  being  myself  seen. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  you  did  see  me  —  at  least  you 

knew  that  I  was  there.  I  fear  that  you  were  not  quite 

well  that  morning.      Do  grow  better  and  better  — 

physically,  I  mean,  for  I  protest  against  any  spir 

itual  improvement,  until  I  am  better  able  to  keep 

pace  with  you  —  but  do  be  strong,  and  full  of  life 

—  earthly  life  —  and  let  there  be  a  glow  in  your 

cheeks.     And  sleep  soundly  the  whole  night  long, 

3 


and  get  up  every  morning  with  a  feeling  as  if  you 
were  newly  created;  and  I  pray  you  to  lay  up  a 
•  stock  of  fresh  energy  every  day  till  we  meet  again; 
so  that  we  may  walk  miles  and  miles,  without 
your  once  needing  to  lean  upon  my  arm.  Not  but 
what  you  slwll  lean  upon  it,  as  much  as  you  choose 
— indeed,  whether  you  choose  or  not — but  I  would 
feel  as  if  you  did  it  to  lighten  my  footsteps,  not  to 
support  your  own.  Am  T  requiring  you  to  work  a 
miracle  within  yourself  V  Perhaps  so — yet,  not  a 
greater  one  than  I  do  really  believe  might  be 
wrought  by  inward  faith  and  outward  aids.  Try 
it,  my  Dove,  and  be  as  lightsome  on  earth  as  your 
sister  doves  are  in  the  air. 

Tomorrow  I  shall  expect  a  letter  from  you;  but 
I  am  almost  in  doubt  whether  to  tell  you  that  I 
expect  it;  because  then  your  conscience  will  re 
proach  you,  if  you  shorld  happen  not  to  have 
written.  I  would  leave  you  as  free  as  you  leave 
me.  But  I  do  wonder  whether  you  were  serious 
in  your  last  letter,  when  you  asked  me  whether 
you  wrote  too  often,  and  seemed  to  think  that  you 
might  thus  interfere  with  my  occupations.  My 
dear  Sophie,  your  letters  are  no  small  j>ortion  of 
my  spiritual  food,  and  help  to  keep  my  soul 
alive,  when  otherwise  it  might  languish  unto 

4 


Jeath,  or  else  become  hardened  and  earth-in 
trusted,  as  seems  to  be  the  case  with  almost  all  the 
souls  with  whom  I  am  in  daily  intercourse.  They 
never  interfere  with  my  worldly  business — neither 
the  reading  nor  the  answering  them — (I  am 
speaking  of  your  letters,  not  of  those  "earth-in- 
crusted"  souls) — for  I  keep  them  to  be  the  treas 
ure  of  my  still  and  secret  hours,  such  hours  as 
pious  people  spend  in  prayer;  and  the  communion 
which  my  spirit  then  holds  with  yours  has  some 
thing  of  religion  in  it.  The  charm  of  your  letters 
does  not  depend  upon  their  intellectual  value, 
though  that  is  great,  but  on  the  spirit  of  which 
they  ate  the  utterance,  and  which  is  a  spirit  of 
wonderful  eiiicacy.  No  one,  whom  you  would  deem 
worthy  of  your  friendship,  could  enjoy  so  large  a 
share  of  it  as  I  do,  without  feeling  the  influence  ot 
your  character  throughout  his  own — purifying  hi^ 
aims  and  desires,  enabling  him  to  realise  that  this 
is  a  truer  world  than  the  feverish  one  around  us, 
and  teaching  him  how  to  gain  daily  entrance  into 
that  better  world.  Such,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  profit  by  it,  has  been  your  ministration  to 
me.  Did  you  dream  what  an  angelic  guardian 
ship  was  entrusted  to  you*? 

March  yth.  Your  letter  did  come.  You  had  not 

5 


4 

the  heart  to  disappoint  me,  as  I  did  yot ,  in  not 
making  a  parting  visit,  and  shall  again,  by  keep 
ing  this  letter  to  send  by  Mary.    But  I  disappoint 
you  in  these  tvvo  instances,  only  that  you  may  con-  , 
sider  it  a  decree  of  Fate  (or  of  Providence,  which 
you  please)  that  we  shall  not  meet  on  the  morn 
ings  of  my  departure,  and  that  my  letters  shall  nor 
come  oftener  than  on  the  alternate  Saturday.      If 
you    will    but    believe    this,    you    will    be    quiet. 
Otherwise  I  know  that  the  Dove  will  flutter  her 
wings,  and  often,  by  necessity,  will  flutter  them  in 
vain.     So  forgive  me,  and  le,t  me  have  my  own 
way,  and  believe  ( tor  it  is  true)  that  I  never  cause 
you  the  slightest  disappointment  without  pain  and 
remorse  on  my  part.      And  yet,  I  know  that  when 
you  wish  me  to  do  any  particular  thing  you  will 
always  tell  me  so,  and  that  if  my  sins  of  omission 
or  commission  should  ever  wound  your  heart,  you 
will  by  no  means  conceal  it. 

I  did  enjoy  that  walk  infinitely — for  certain!) 
the  enjoyment  was  not  all  finite.  And  what  a 
heavenly  pleasure  we  might  have  enjoyed  this 
very  day;  the  air  was  so  delicious,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  dismal  old  Custom  House  was  situated  in 
Paradise;  and  this  afternoon,  I  sat  with  my  win* 
<dow  open,  to  temper  the  glow  of  a  huge  coal  fire. 

6 


It  almost  seems  to  me,  now,  as  if  beautiful 
were  wasted  and  thrown  away,  when  we  do  not 
feel  their  beauty  and  heavenliness  through  one  an 
other. 

Your  own  friend, 

N.  H. 

Miss  iSophia  A.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Apr!  2d,  1839 
Mine  OICH  Dove, 

I  have  been  sitting  by  my  fireside  ever  .since  tea- 
time,  till  now  it  is  past  eight  o'clock  :  and  have 
been  musing  and  dreaming  about  a  thousand 
things,  with  every  one  of  which,  I  do  believe,  some 
nearer  or  remoter  thought  of  you  was  inter 
mingled.  I  should  have  begun  this  letter  earlier 
in  the  evening,  but  was  afraid  that  some  intrusive 
idler  would  thrust  himself  between  us.  and  sc  the 
sacredness  of  my  letter  would  be  partly  lost;  —  for 
I  feel  as  if  my  letters  were  sacred,  because  they  are 
written  from  my  spirit  to  your  spirit.  I  wish  it 
were  possible  to  convey  them  to  you  by  other  than 
earthly  messengers  —  to  convey  them  directly  into 
your  heart,  with  the  warmth  of  mine  still  linger 
ing  in  them.  When  we  shall  be  endowed  with  our 
spiritual  bodies,!  think  they  will  be  so  constituted, 
that  we  may  send  thoughts  and  feelings  any  dis 
tance,  in  no  time  at  all,  and  transfuse  them  warm 

8 


and  fresh  into  the  consciousness  of  those  whom  we 
love.  Oh  what  a  bliss  it  would  he,  at  this  mo 
ment;  if  I  could  be  conscious  of  some  purer  feel 
ing,  some  more  delicate  sentiment,  some  lovelier 
fantasy,  than  could  possibly  have  had  its  birth  in 
my  own  nature,  and  therefore  be  aware  that  mv 
Dove  was  thinking  through  my  mind  and  feeling 
through  my  heart!  Try — some  evening  when 
you  are  alone  and  happy,  and  when  you  are  most 
conscious  of  loving  me  and  being  loved  by  me — 
and  see  if  you  do  not  possess  this  power  already. 
But,  after  all,  perhaps  it  is  not  wise  to  intermix 
fantastic  ideas  with  the  reality  of  our  affection. 
Let  us  content  ourselves  to  be  earthly  creatures, 
and  hold  communion  ot  spirit  in  such  modes  as 
are  ordained  to  us — by  letters  (dipping  our  pens 
as  deep  as  may  be  into  our  hearts)  by  heartfelt 
words,  when  they  can  be  audible;  by  glances — 
through  which  medium  spirits  do  really  seem  to 
talk  in  their  own  language — and  by  holy  kisses, 
which  I  do  think  have  something  supernatural  in 
them. 

And  now  good  night,  my  beautiful  Dove.  I  do 
not  write  any  more  at  present,  because  there  are 
three  more  whole  days  before  this  letter  will  visit 
you;  ar»d  I  desire  to  talk  with  you,  each  of  those 
three  days.  Your  letter  did  not  come  today. 

9 


Even  if  it  should  not  come  tomorrow,  I  shall  not 
imagine  that  you  forget  me  or  neglect  me,  but 
shall  heave  two  or  three  sighs,  and  measure  salt 
and  coal  so  much  the  more  diligently.  Good 
night;  and  if  I  have  any  power,  at  this  distance, 
over  your  spirit,  it  shall  be  exerted  to  make  you 
sleep  like  a  little  baby,  till  the  "Harper  of  the 
Golden  Dawn"  arouse  you.  Then  you  must  fin 
ish  that  ode.  But  do,  if  you  love  me,  sleep. 

April  ^d.  No  letter,  my  dearest;  and  if  one 
comes  tomorrow  I  shall  not  receive  it  till  Friday, 
nor  perhaps  then;  because  I  have  a  cargo  of  coal 
to  measure  in  East  Cambridge,  and  cannot  go  to 
the  Custom  House  till  the  job  is  finished.  If  you 
had  known  this,  I  think  you  would  have  done  your 
[best  |  possible  to  send  me  a  letter  .today.  Doubt 
less  you  have  some  good  reason  for  omitting  it. 
F  was  invited  to  dine  at  Mr.  Hooper's;  with  your 
sister  Mary;  and  the  notion  came  into  my  head, 
that  perhaps  you  would  be  there, — and  though  I 
knew  that  it  could  not  be  so,  yet  I  felt  as  if  it 
might.  But  just  as  I  was  going  home  from  the 
Custom  House  to  dress,  came  an  abominable  per 
son  to  say  that  a  measurer  was  wanted  forthwith 
at  East  Cambridge;  so  over  I  hurried,  and  found 
that,  after  all,  nothing  would  be  done  till  tomor 
row  morning  at  sunrise.  In  the  meantime,  I  had 

10 


lost  my  dinner,  and  all  other  pleasures  that  had 
awaited  me  at  Mr.  Hooper's;  so  that  I  came  back 
in  very  ill  humor,  and  do  not  mean  to  be  very 
good-natured    again,    till    my    Dove   shall    nestle 
upon  my  heart  again,  either  in  her  own  sweet  per 
son,  or  by  her  image  in  a  letter.     But  your  image 
will  be  with  me,  long  before  the  letter  comes.     It 
will  flit  around  me  while  I  am  measuring  coal, -and 
will  peep  over  my  shoulder  to  see  whether  I  keep  a 
correct  account,  and  will  smile  to  hear  my  bicker 
ings  with  the  black-faced  demons  in  the  vessel's 
hold,   (they  look  like  the  forge-men  in  Ketsch's 
Fridolin)  and  will  soothe  and  mollify  me  amid  all 
the  pester  and  plague  that  is  in  store  for  me  to 
morrow.     Not  that  I  would  avoid  this  pester  and 
plague,  even  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  do  so.     I 
need  such  training,  and  ought  to  have  undergone 
it  long  ago.      It  will  give  my  character  a  healthy 
hardness  as  regards  the  world;  while  it  will  leave 
my  heart  as  soft — as  fit  for  a  Dove  to  rest  upon — 
as  it  is  now,  or  ever  was.     Good  night  again,  gen 
tle  Dove.     I  must  leave  a  little  space  for  tomor 
row's  record;  and  moreover,  it  is  almost  time  that 
!  were  ;' :;lr  t>,  hrvir^  to  get  rp  in  the  clusl.y  dir.vn. 
Did  you  yield  to  my  conjurations,  and  sleep  well 
last  night?     Well  then,  I  throw  the  same  spell 
over  you  tonight. 

11 


April  4th.  '/>  past  9  P.  M.  I  came  home 
late  in  the  afternoon,  very  tired,  sunburnt  and 
sea-flushed,  having  walked  or  sat  on  the  deck  of  ;; 
schooner  ever  since  sunrise.  Nevertheless,  1 
purified  myself  from  the  sable  stains  of  my  pro 
fession — stains  which  I  share  in  common  with 
chimney  sweepers — and  then  hastened  to  the  Cus 
tom  House  to  get  your  letter — for  I  knew  there 
was  one  there  awaiting  me,  and  now  I  thank  you 
with  my  whole  heart,  and  will  straightway  go  to 
sleep.  Do  you  the  same. 

April  5th.  Your  yesterday's  letter  is  received, 
my  beloved  Sophie.  I  have  no  time  to  answer  it: 
but,  like  all  your  communications,  personal  or 
written,  it  is  the  sunshine  of  my  life.  I  have  been 
busy  all  day,  and  am  now  going  to  see  your  sister 
Mary — and  I  hope,  Elizabeth.  Mr.  Pickens  is 
going  with  me. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Wednesday,  April  17th,  1839  —  4.  o'clock  P.  M.  jjj 
Mv  D  cares  t: 

If  it  were  not  for  your  sake,  I  should  really  be 

glad  of  this  pitiless  east   wind,   and  should  es 

pecially  bless  the  pelting  rain  and  intermingled 

snowfiakes.     They  have  released  me  from  the  toils 

and  cares  of  office,  and  given  me  license  to  betake 

myself  to  my  own  chamber;  and  here  I  sit  by  a 

good  coal  fire,  with  at  least  six  or  seven  comforta 

ble  hours  to  spend  before  bed-time.      I  feel  pretty 

secure  against  intruders';  for  the  bad  weather  will 

defend  me  from'  foreign  invasion  ;  and  as  to  Cou 

sin  Haley,  he  and  \  had  a  bitter  political  dispute 

last  evening,  at  the  close  of  which  he  went  to  bed 

in  high  dudgeon,  and  probably  will  not  speak  to 

me  th^se   three  days.     Thus   you   perceive   that 

strife  and  wrangling,  as  well  as  east  winds  and 

rain,  are  the  methods  of  a  kind  Providence  to  pro 

mote  my  comfort  —  which  would  not  have  been  so 

well   secured  in  any  other  way.     Six  or  seven 

13 


hours  of  cheerful   solitude!     .But   I   will   not  be 
alone.      I  invite  your  spirit  to  be  with  me — at  any 
hour  and  as  many  hours  as  you  please — but  es 
pecially  at  the  twilight  hour,  before  I  light  my 
lamp.     Are  you  conscious  of  my  invitation?     I 
bid  you  at  that  particular  time,  because  I  can  see 
visions  more   vividly   in   the  dusky  glow  of  fire 
light,  than  either  by  daylight  or  lamplight.   Come 
—and  let  me  renew  my  spell  against  headache  and 
other  direful  effects  of  the  east  wind.      How   I 
wish  I  could  give  you  a  portion  of  my  insensi 
bility! — And  yet   I   should  be  almost  afraid  of 
some  radical  transformation,  were  I  to  produce  a 
change  in  that  respect.     God  made  you  so  deli 
cately,  that  it  is  especially  unsafe  to  interfere  with 
His   workmanship.      If  my   little    Sophie — mine 
own   Dove — cannot  grow   plump   and   rosy   and 
tough  and  vigorous  without  being  changed  into 
another  nature  then  I  do  think  that  for  this  short 
life,  she  had  better  remain  just  what  she  is.     Yes; 
but  you  will  always  be  the  same  to  me,  because  we 
have  met  in  Eternity,  and  there  our  intimacy  was 
formed.     So  get  as  well  as  you  jwssibly  can,  and 
be  as  strong  and  rosy  as  you  will ;  for  I  shall  never 
doubt  that  you  are  the  same  Sophie  who  have  s< 
often  leaned  uj>on  my  arm,  and  needed  its  super 
fluous  strength. 


[  was  conscious,  on  those  two  evenings,  of  a 
peacefulness  and  contented  repose  such  as  I  never 
enjoyed  before.  You  could  not  have  felt  such 
(juiet  unless  I  had  felt  it  too — nor  could  I,  unless 
you  had.  If  either  of  our  spirits  had  been  trou 
bled,  the)  were  then  in  such  close  communion  that 
both  must  have  felt  the  same  grief  and  turmoil.  I 
never,  till  now,  had  a  friend  who  could  give  me 
repose; — all  have  disturbed  me;  and  whether  for 
pleasure  or  pain,  it  was  still  disturbance,  but  peace 
overflows  from  your  heart  into  mine.  Then  I  feel 
that  there  is  a  Now — and  that  Now  must  be  al 
ways  calm  and  happy — and  that  sorrow  and  evil 
Nare  but  phantoms  that  seem  to  flit  across  it. 

You  must  never  expect  to  see  my  sister  E.  in 
the  daytime,  unless  by  previous  appointment,  or 
when  she  goes  to  walk.  So  unaccustomed  am  I  to 
daylight  interviews,  that  I  never  imagine  her  in 
sunshine;  and  I  really  doubt  whether  her  facul 
ties  of  life  and  intellect  begin  to  be  exercised  till 
dusk — unless  on  extraordinary  occasions.  Their 
noon  is  at  midnight:  I  wish  you  could  walk  with 
her;  but  you  must  not,  because  she  is  indefatig 
able,  and  always  wants  to  walk  half  round  the 
world,  when  once  she  is  out  of  doors. 

April  i8th.  My  Dove — my  hopes  of  a  long 
evening  of  seclusion  were  not  quite  fulfilled;  for. 


a  little  before  nine  o'clock  John  Forrester  and 
Cousin  Haley  came  in,  both  of  whom  I  so  fascin 
ated  with  my  delectable  conversation,  that  they 
did  not  take  leave  till  after  eleven.  Nevertheless, 
I  had  already  secured  no  inconsiderable  treasure  of 
enjoyment,  with  all  of  which  you  were  inter 
mingled.  There  has  been  nothing  to  do  at  the 
Custom  House  today ;  so  I  came  home  at  two 
o'clock,  and- — went  to  sleep!  Pray  Heaven  you 
may  have  felt  a  sympathetic  drowsiness,  and  have 
yielded  to  it.  My  nap  has  been  a  pretty  long  one, 
for— as  nearly  as  I  can  judge  by  the  position  of 
the  sun,  it  must  be  as  much  as  five  o'clock.  I 
think  there  will  be  a  beautiful  sunset;  and  per 
haps,  if  we  could  walk  out  together,  the  wind., 
would  change  and  the  air  grow  balmy  at  once.  The 
Spring  is  not  acquainted  with  my  Dove  and  me, 
as  the  Winter  was; — how  then  can  we  expect  her 
to  be  kindly  to  us?  We  really  must  continue  to 
walk  out  and  meet  her,  and  make  friends  with  her; 
then  she  will  salute  your  cheek  with  her  balmiest 
kiss,  whenever  she  gets  a  chance.  As  to  the  east 
wind,  if  ever  the  imaginative  portion  of  my  brain 
recover  from  its  torpor,  I  mean  to  personify  it  as 
a  wicked,  spiteful,  blustering,  treacherous — in 
short,  altogether  devilish  sort  of  body,  whose  prin 
ciple  of  life  it  is  to  make  as  much  mischief  as  he 

16 


can.  The  west  wind — or  whatever  is  the  gentlest 
wind  of  heaven — shall  assume  your  aspect,  and  be 
humanised  and  angelicised  with  your  traits  of 
character,  and  the  sweet  West  shall  finally  tri 
umph  over  the  fiendlike  East,  and  rescue  the 
world  from  his  miserable  tyranny ;  and  it  I  tell  the 
story  well,  I  am  sure  my  loving  and  beloved  West 
Wind  will  kiss  me  for  it. 

When  this  week's  first  letter  came,  I  held  it  a 
long  time  in  my  hand,  marvelling  at  the  super 
scription.     How   did  you   contrive   to  write   it.*1? 
Several  times  since,  I  have  pored  over  it,  to  dis 
cover  how  much  of  yourself  was  mingled  with  my 
share  of  it;  and  certainly  there  is  a  grace  Hung 
over  the  fac  simile,  which  was  never  seen  in  my 
harsh,  uncouth  autograph — and  yet  none  of  the 
strength   is  lost.     You  are   wonderful.      Imitate 
this. 

NATH.  HAWTHORNK. 


Friday,  April  igth.  Your  Wednesday's  letter 
has  come,  dearest.  Your  letters  delight  me  more 
than  anything,  save  the  sound  of  your  voice;  and 
I  love  dearly  to  write  to  you  —  so  be  at  j)face  on 
that  score.  You  t//v  beautiful,  my  own  heart's 
Dove.  Never  doubt  it  again.  I  rhall  really  and 

17 


truly  he  very  glad  of  the  extracts;  and  they  will 
have  a  charm  for  me  that  could  not  otherwise  have 
been.  I  will  imagine  your  voice  repeating  them, 
tremulously.  The  spell  which  you  laid  upon  my 
brow  will  retain  its  power  till  we  meet  again — 
then  it  must  be  renewed. 

What  a  beautiful  day — and  I  had  a  double  en 
joyment  of  it,  for  your  sake  and  my  own.  I  have 
been  to  walk  this  afternoon,  to  Bunker's  Hill  and 
the  Navy  Yard,  and  am  tired,  because  I  had  not 
your  arm  to  support  me. 

God  keep  you  from  East  winds  and  every  other 
evil. 

Mine  own  Dove's  own  Friend, 

N,  H. 
l/2  past  5  P.  M. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


18 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  April  30th,  6  P.  M.,  1839 
37  v  beloved  i 

Your  sweetest  of  all  letters  found  me  at  the 
Custom  House,  where  I  had  almost  just  arrived, 
having  been  engaged  all  the  forenoon  in  meas 
uring  twenty  chaldrons  of  coal  —  which  dull  occu 
pation  was  enlivened  by  frequent  brawls  and  ami 
cable  discussions  with  a  crew  of  funny  little 
Frenchmen  from  Acadie.  I  know  not  whether 
your  letter  was  a  surprise  to  me  —  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  had  a  prophetic  faith  that  the  Dove  would 
visit  me  —  but  at  any  rate,  it  was  a  joy,  as  it  al 
ways  is;  tor  my  spirit  turns  to  you  from  all  trouble 
and  all  pleasure.  This  forenoon  I  could  not  wait 
as  I  generally  do,  to  be  in  solitude  before  opening 
your  letter;  for  I  exacted,  to  be  busy  all  the 
afternoon,  and  was  already  tired  with  working 
yesterday  and  today;  and  my  heart  longed  to 
drink  your  thoughts  and  feelings,  as  a  parched 
throat  for  cold  water.  So  I  pressed  the  Dove  t( 

19 


my  lips  (turning  my  head  away,  so  that  nobod) 
^aw  me)  and  then  broke  the  seal.     I  do  think  it  is> 
i lie  dearest  letter  you  have  written,  nut  i  think  so 
of  each  successive  one;  so  you  need  not  imagine 
that  you  have  outdone  yourself  in  this  instance. 
How  did  I  live  before  I  knew  you — before  I  pos-" 
sessed  your  affection !      I  reckon  upon  your  love  as 
something  that  is  to  endure  when  everything  that 
can  perish  has  perished — though  my  trust  is  some 
times  mingled  with  fear,  because  I  feel  myself  un- 
vorfhv  of  your  love.     But  if  I  am  worthy  of  i* 
VOL,  will  always  love  me;  and  if  there  be  anything 
good  and  pure  in  me,  it  will  be  proved  by  my  al 
ways  loving  you. 

After  dinner,   I  had  to  journey  over  to  East 
Cambridge,  expecting  to  measure  a  cargo  of  coal 
there;  but  the  vessel  had  stuck  in  the  mud  on  her 
way  thither,  so  that  nothing  could  be  done  till  to 
morrow  morning.     It  must  have  been  my  guar 
dian  angel  that  steered  her  \i\wn  that  mud-bank, 
for  I  really  needed  rest.     Did  you  lead  the  vessel 
astray,  my  Dove?      I  did  not  stop  to  inquire  into 
particulars,    but    returned   home   forthwith,    and 
locked  my  door,  and  threw  myself  on  the  bed,  with 
your  letter  in  my  hand.     I  read  it  over  slowly  and 
l>eacefully,  and  then  folding  it  up,  I  rested  my 
heart  upon  it,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

20 


Friday,  May  3d.  5  P.M.  My  dearest,  ten 
million  occupations  and  interruptions,  and  intru 
sions,  have  kept  me  from  going  on  with  my  letter; 
hut  my  spirit  has  visited  you  continually,  and 
yours  has  come  to  me.  1  have  had  to  be  out  a 
good  deal  in  the  east  winds;  but  your  spell  has 
proved  sovereign  against  all  harm,  though  some 
times  I  have  shuddered  and  shivered  for  your  sake. 
How  have  you  borne  it,  my  poor  dear  little  Dove? 
Have  you  been  able  to  flit  abroad  on  today's  east 
wind,  and  go  to  Marblehead,  as  you  designed? 
You  will  not  have  seen  Mrs.  Hooper,  because  she 
came  up  to  Boston  in  the  cars  on  Monday  morn 
ing.  I  had  a  brief  talk  with  her,  and  we  made 
mutual  inquiries,  she  about  you,  and  I  about  little 
C.  I  will  not  attempt  to  tell  you  how  it  rejoices 
me  that  we  are  to  spend  a  whole  month  to 
gether  in  the  same  city.  Looking  forward  to  it, 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  that  month  would  never  come 
to  an  end,  because  there  will  be  so  much  of  eternity 
in  it.  I  wish  you  had  read  that  dream-letter 
through,  and  could  remember  its  contents.  I  am 
very  sure  that  it  could  not  have  [been]  written  by 
me,  however,  because  I  should  not  think  of  ad 
dressing  you  as  "My  dear  Sister"  — nor  should  I 
like  to  have  you  call  me  brother — nor  even  should 
have  liked  it,  from  the  very  first  of  our  acquain- 

21 


Mnce.      \Yc  arc,   I  trust,  kindred  spirits,  but  not 
brother  and  sister.      And  then  what  a  cold  and  dry 
annunciation    of    that    awful    contingency  —  the 
"continuance  or  not  of  our  acquaintance."      Mine 
own  Dove,  you  are  to  blame  for  dreaming  such 
letters,  or  parts  of  letters,  as  coming  from  me.      It 
was  you  that  wrote  it — not  I.     Yet  I  will  not  be 
lieve  that  it  shows  a  want  of  faith  in  the  steadfast 
ness  of  my  affection,  but  only  in  the  continuance 
of  circumstances  prosperous  fo  our  earthly  and  ex 
tern;'!  connection.      Let  us  trust  in  GOD  for  that. 
Pray  to  GOD  for  it,  my  Dove — for  you  know  how 
to  pray  better  than  I  do.      Pray,  for  my  sake,  that 
no  shadows  of  earth  may  ever  come  between  us, 
because  my  only  hope  of  being  a  happy  man  de 
pends  upon  the  permanence  of  our  union.     I  have 
great  comfort  in  such  thoughts  as  those  you  sug 
gest — that    our    hearts    here    draw    towards   one 
another  so  unusually — that  we  have  not  cultiva 
ted  our  friendship,  but  let  it  grow, — that  rve  have 
thrown  ourselves  upon  one  another  with  such  per 
fect  trust; — and  even  the  deficiency  of  worldly 
wisdom,  that  some  people  would  ascribe  to  us  in 
following  the  guidance  of  our  hearts  so  implicitly, 
is  proof  to  me  that  there  is  a  deep  wisdom  within 
us.   Oh,  let  us  not  think  but  that  all  will  be  well ! 
And  even  it,  to  worldly  eyes,  it  should  appear  that 

22 


our  lot  is  not  a  fortunate  one,  still  we  shall  have 
glimpses,  at  least — and  I  trust  a  pervading  sun 
shine — of  a  happiness  that  we  could  never  have 
found,  if  we  had  unquietly  struggled  for  :,t,  and 
made  our  own  selection  of  the  means  and  species 
of  it,  instead  of  trusting  all  to  something  diviner 
than  our  reason. 

My  Dove,  there  were  a  good  many  things  that 
I  meant  to  have  written  in  this  letter;  hut  I  have 
continually  lapsed  into  rits  of  musing,  and  when 
I  have  written,  the  soul  of  my  thoughts  has  not 
readih  assumed  the  earthly  garments  of  language. 
It  is  now  time  to  earn'  the  letter  to  Mary.  I  kiss 
you,  dearest — did  you  feel  it4?  Your  own  friend, 
NATH.  HAWTHORNE,  Eso,. 

(  Dear  me !  What  an  effect  that  Esquire  gives  to 
the  whole  letter!) 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Salem  ,  May  26tl,  1839 
own  Sc/f, 

I  felt  rather  dismal  yesterday  —  a  sort  of  v  ague 
weight  on  my  .spirit  —  a  sense  that  something  was 
wanting  to  me  here.  What  or  who  could  it  have 
been  that  I  so  missed?  I  thought  it  not  best  to  go 
to  your  house  last  evening:  so  that  I  have  not  yet 
seen  Elizabeth  —  but  we  shall  probably  attend  the 
Hurley-Hurley  tonight.  Would  that  my  Dove 
might  be  there!  It  seems  really  monstrous  that 
here,  in  her  own  home  —  or  what  was  her  home,  till 
she  found  another  in  my  arms  —  she  should  no 
longer  be.  Oh,  my  dearest,  I  yearn  for  you,  and 
my  heart  heaves  when  I  think  of  you  —  (and  that 
is  always,  but  sometimes  a  thought  makes  me 
know  and  feel  you  more  vividly  than  at  others, 
and  that  I  call  "thinking  of  you")  —  heaves  and 
swells  (my  heart  does)  as  sometimes  you  have  felt 
it  beneath  you,  when  your  head  was  resting  on  it. 
At  such  moments  it  is  stirred  up  from  its  depths. 
Then  our  two  ocean-hearts  mingle  their  floods. 

24 


I  do  not  believe  that  this  letter  will  extend  to 
three  pages.  My  feelings  do  not,  of  their  own 
accord,  assume  words — at  least,  not  a  continued 
flow  of  words.  I  write  a  few  lines,  and  then  I 
fall  a-musing  about  many  things,  which  seem  to 
have  no  connection  among  themselves,  save  that 
my  Dove  flits  lightly  through  them  all.  I  feel  as 
if  my  being  were  dissolved  and  the  idea  of  you 
were  diffused  throughout  it.  Am  I  writing  non 
sense?  That  is  for  you  to  decide.  You  know 
what  is  Truth — "what  is  what"-— and  I  should 
not  dare  to  say  to  you  what  I  felt  to  be  other  than 
the  Truth  —  other  fhan  the  very  "what."  It  is  very- 
singular  ( but  I  do  not  suppose  I  can  express  it )  that, 
while  I  love  you  so  dearly,  and  while  1  am  so 
conscious  of  the  deep  embrace  of  our  spirits,  still 
I  have  an  awe  of  you  that  I  never  felt  for  anybody 
else.  Awe  is  not  the  word,  either;  because  it 
might  imply  something  stern  in  you — whereas — 
but  you  must  make  it  out  for  yourself.  I  do  wish 
that  I  could  put  this  into  words — not  so  much  for 
your  satisfaction  (because  I  believe  you  will  un 
derstand)  as  for  my  own.  I  suppose  I  should 
have  pretty  much  the  same  feeling  if  an  angel 
were  to  come  from  Heaven  and  be  my  dearest 
friend — only  the  angel  could  not  have  the  tender- 
est  of  human  natures  too,  the  sense  of  which  is 


mingled  with  this  sentiment.  Perhaps  it  is  he- 
cause  in  meeting  you,  I  really  meet  a  spirit, 
whereas  the  obstructions  of  earth  have  prevented 
such  a  meeting  in  every  other  place.  But  I  leave 
the  mystery  here.  Some  time  or  other,  it  may  be 
made  plainer  to  me.  But  methinks  it  converts  my 
love  into  a  religion.  And  then  it  is  singular,  too, 
that  this  awe  (or  whatever  it  be)  does  not  prevent 
me  from  feeling  that  it  is  I  who  have  the  charge  of 
you,  and  that  my  Dove  is  to  follow  my  guidance 
and  do  my  bidding.  Am  I  not  very  bold  to  say 
this1?  And  will  not  you  rebel?  Oh  no;  because 
I  possess  the  power  only  so  far  as  I  love  you.  My 
love  gives  me  the  right,  and  your  love  consents 
to  it. 

Since  writing  the  above  I  have  been  asleep;  and 
I  dreamed  that  I  had  been  sleeping  a  whole  year 
in  the  open  air;  and  that  while  I  slept,  the  grass 
grew  around  me.  It  seemed,  in  my  dream,  that 
the  very  bed-clothes  which  actually  covered  me 
wer£  spread  beneath  me,  and  when  I  awoke  (in 
my  dream)  I  snatched  them  up,  and  the  earth 
Under  them  looked  black,  as  if  it  had  been  burnt — 
one  square  place,  exactly  the  si/c  of  the  bed 
clothes.  Yet  there  was  grass  and  herbage  scat 
tered  over  this  burnt  space,  looking  as  fresh,  and 
bnght,  and  dewy,  as  if  the  summer  rain  and  the 

26 


summer  sun  had  been  cherishing  them  all  the  time. 
Interpret  this  for  me,  my  Dove — hut  do  not  draw 
any  somber  omens  from  it.  What  is  signified  [by  j 
my  nap  of  a  whole  year?  ( It  made  me  grieve  to 
think  that  I  had  lost  so  much  of  eternity) — and 
what  was  the  fire  that  blasted  the  spot  of  earth 
which  I  occupied,  while  the  grass  flourished  all 
around'? — And  what  comfort  am  I  to  draw  from 
the  fresh  herbage  amid  the  burnt  space*?  But  it 
is  a  silly  dream,  and  you  cannot  expound  any 
sense  out  of  it.  Generally,  I  cannot  remember 
what  my  dreams  have  been — only  there  is  a  con 
fused  sense  of  having  passed  through  adventures, 
pleasurable  or  otherwise.  I  suspect  that  you 
mingle  with  my  dreams,  but  take  care  to  flit  away 
just  hefore  I  awake,  leaving  me  but  dimly  and 
doubtfully  conscious  of  your  visits. 

Do  you  never  start  so  suddenly  from  a  dream 
that  you  are  afraid  to  look  round  the  room,  lest 
your  dream-personages  (so  strong  and  distinct 
seemed  their  existence,  a  moment  before)  should 
have  thrust  themselves  out  of  dream-land  into  the 
midst  of  realities'?  I  do,  sometimes. 

I  wish  I  were  to  see  you  this  evening.  How 
many  times  have  you  thought  of  me  today'?  All 
the  time4?— Or  not  at  all?  Did  you  ever  read 
such  a  foolish  letter  as  this4?  (Here  I  was  inter- 

27 


rupted,  and  have  taken  a  stroll  down  on  the  Neck 
— a  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful  sunshine,  and 
air,  and  sea.  Would  that  my  Dove  had  been  with 
me.  I  tear  that  we  shall  perforce  lose  some  of  our 
mutual  intimacy  with  Nature — we  walk  together 
so  seldom  that  she  will  seem  more  like  a  stranger. 
Would  that  I  could  write  such  sweet  letters  to 
mine  own  self,  as  mine  own  self  writes  to  me. 
Good  bye,  dearest  self.  Direct  yours  to 

NATH.  HAWTHORNK,  Esy. 
Custom-House,  Boston. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

No.  4  Avon  Place, 

Boston. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  July  3d,  1839 
Most  beloved  Amelia^ 

I  shall  call  you  so  sometimes  in  playfulness,  and 
so  may  you;  but  it  is  not  the  name  by  which  my 
soul  recognizes  you.  It  knows  you  as  Sophie  ;  but 
I  doubt  whether  that  is  the  inwardly  and  intensely 
dearest  epithet  either.  I  believe  that  "Dove"  is 
the  true  word  after  all;  and  it  never  can  be  used 
amiss,  whether  in  sunniest  gaiety  or  shadiest  seri 
ousness.  And  yet  it  is  a  sacred  word,  and  I  should 
not  love  to  have  anybody  hear  me  use  it,  nor  know 
that  GOD  has  baptised  you  so  —  the  baptism  being 
for  yourself  and  me  alone.  By  that  name,  I 
think,  I  shall  greet  you  when  we  meet  in  Heaven. 
Other  dear  ones  may  call  you  "daughter,"  "sis 
ter,"  "Sophia,"  but  when,  at  your  entrance  into 
Heaven,  or  after  you  have  been  a  littlr  while 
there,  you  hear  a  voice  say  "Dove!"  then  you  will 
know  that  your  kindred  spirit  has  been  admitted 
(perhaps  for  your  sake)  to  the  mansions  of  rest. 

29 


That  word  will  express  his  yearning  for  you 
then  to  be  forever  satisfied;  for  we  will  melt  inn 
one   another,   and   he  close,   close   together  then. 
The  name  was  inspired;  it  came  without  our  being 
aware  that  you  were  thenceforth  to  he  my  Dove, 
now  and  through  eternity.      I  do  not  remember. 
how  nor  when  it  alighted  on  you;  the  first  I  knew, 
it  was  in  my  heart  to  call  you  so. 

Good  night  now,  my  Dove.  It  is  not  yet  nine 
o'clock ;  but  I  am  somewhat  aweary  and  prefer  to 
muse  about  you  till  bedtime,  rather  than  write. 

July  Jth,  1-2  past  seven  P.M.  I  must,  some 
how  or  other,  finish  this  letter  tonight,  my  dearest 
— or  else  it  would  not  be  sent  tomorrow ;  and  then 
I  fear  our  head  would  ache,  naughty  head  that  it 
is.  My  heart  yearns  to  communicate  to  you ;  but 
if  it  had  any  other  means  at  hand,  it  certainly 
would  not  choose  to  communicate  by  the  scratch- 
ings  of  an  iron  pen,  which  I  am  now  compelled  to 
use.  This  must  and  will  inevitably  be  a  dull  let 
ter.  Oh  how  different  from,  yours,  which  I  re 
ceived  today.  You  are  absolutely  inspired,  my 
Dove;  and  it  is  not  my  poor  stupid  self  that  in 
spires  you;  for  how  could  I  give  what  is  not  in 
me.  I  wish  I  could  write  to  you  in  the  morning, 
before  my  toils  begin ;  but  that  is  impossible,  un 
less  I  were  to  write  before  daylight.  At  eventide, 

30 


my  mind  has  quite  lost  its  elasticity  —  my  heart, 
even,  is  weary —  and  all  that  I  seem  capable  of  do 
ing  is  to  rest  my  head  on  its  pillow  and  there  lay 
down  the  burthen  of*  life.  I  do  not  mean  to 
imply  that  I  am  unhappy  or  discontented;  for  this 
is  not  the  case;  my  life  is  only  a  burthen,  in  the 
same  way  that  it  is  so  to  every  toilsome  man,  and 
mine  is  a  healthy  weariness,  such  as  needs  only  a 
night's  sleep  to  remove  it.  But  from  henceforth 
forever,  I  shall  be  entitled  to  call  the  sons  of  toil 
my  brethren,  and  shall  know  how  to  sympathise 
with  them,  seeing  that  I,  likewise,  have  risen  at 
the  dawn  and  borne  the  fervor  of  the  mid-day  sun, 
nor  turned  my  heavy  footsteps  homeward  till 
eventide.  Years  hence,  perhaps,  the  experience 
that  my  heart  is  acquiring  now  will  flow  out  in 
truth  and  wisdom. 

You  ask  me  a  good  m-any  questions,  my  Dove, 
and  I  will  answer  such  of  them  as  now  occur  to 
me;  and  the  rest  you  may  ask  me  again,  when  we 
meet.  First  as  to  your  letters.  My  beloved,  you 
must  write  whenever  you  will  —  in  all  confidence 
that  I  can  never  be.  otherwise  than  joyful  to  re 
ceive  your  letters.  Do  not  get  into  the  habit  of 
trying  to  find  out,  by  any  method  save  your  own 
intuition,  what  is  pleasing  and  what  is  displeasing 
to  me.  Whenever  you  need  my  counsel,  or  even 

31 


my  reproof,  in  any  serious  matter,  you  will  not 
fail  to  receive  it ;  but  I  wish  my  Dove  to  be  as  free 
as  a  Bird  of  Paradise.  Now,  as  to  this  affair  of 
the  letters.  I  have  sometimes  been  a  little  an 
noyed  at  the  smiles  of  my  brother  measurers,  who, 
notwithstanding  the  masculine  fist  of  the  direc 
tion,  seem  to  know  that  such  delicately  sealed  and 
folded  epistles  can  come  only  from  a  lady's  small 
and  tender  hand.  But  the  annoyance  is  not  on  my 
own  account;  but  because  it  seems  as  if  the  letters 
were  prophaned  by  being  smiled  at — but  this  is, 
after  all,  a  mere  fantasy,  since  the  smilers  know 
nothing  about  mv  Dove,  nor  that  I  really  have  a 
Dove ;  nor  can  they  be  certain  that  the  letters  come 
from  a  lady,  nor,  especially,  can  they  have  the  re 
motest  imagination  what  heavenly  letters  they  are. 
The  sum  and  substance  is,  that  they  are  smiling  at 
nothing;  and  so  it  is  no  matter  for  their  smiles.  I 
would  not  give  up  one  letter  to  avoid  the  "world's 
dread  laugh," — much  less  to  shun  the  good-na 
tured  raillery  of  three  or  four  people  who  do  not 
dream  of  giving  pain.  Why  has  my  Dove  made 
me  waste  so  much  of  my  letter  in  this  talk  about 
nothing*? 

My  dearest,  did  you  really  think  that  I  meant 
to  express  a  doubt  whether  we  should  enjoy  each 
other's  society  so  much,  if  we  could  be  together  all 

32 


the  time.  No,  no;  for  I  always  feel,  that  our  mo 
mentary  and  hurried  interviews  scarcely  afford  u^ 
time  to  taste  the  draught  of  affection  that  we  dri^k 
from  one  another's  hearts.  1  here  is  a  precious 
portion  of  our  happiness  wasted,  because  we  are 
forced  to  enjoy  it  too  greedily.  But  I  thought,  as 
you  do,  that  there  might  he  more  communication 
of  the  intellect,  as  well  as  communion  of  heart,  if 
we  could  be  oftener  together. 

Your  picture  gallery  of  auxiliary  verbs  is  an  ad 
mirable  fantasy.  You  are  certainly  the  first  mor 
tal  to  whom  it  was  given  to  behold  a  verb;  though, 
it  seems  as  if  they  ought  to  be  visible,  being  crea 
tures  whose  office  it  is  (if  I  remember  my  gram 
mar  aright)  "to  be,  to  do,  and  to  suffer."  Therein 
is  comprehended  all  that  we  mortals  are  capable 
of.  No;  for,  according  to  the  definition,  verbs  do 
not  feel,  and  cannot  enjoy — they  only  exist,  and 
act,  and  are  miserable.  My  Dove  and  I  are  no 
verbs — or  if  so,  we  are  passive  verbs,  and  there 
fore  happy  ones. 

(Rest  of  letter  missing) 

To  Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem, 

Massachusetts. 

33 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Monday  Eveg  July  15th  [1839] 
Mv  blessed  Dove, 

Your  letter  was  brought  to  me  at  East  Cam 
bridge  this  afternoon:  —  otherwise  I  know  not 
when  I  should  have  received  it;  for  I  am  so  busy 
that  I  know  not  whether  I  shall  have  time  to  go  to 
the  Custom-House  these  two  or  three  days.  I  put 
it  in  my  pocket,  and  .did  not  read  it  till  just  now, 
when  I  could  be  quiet  in  my  own  chamber-  —  for  I 
always  feel  as  if  your  letters  were  too  sacred  to  be 
read  in  the  midst  of  people  —  and  (you  will  smile) 
I  never  read  them  without  first  washing  my  hands  ! 

And  so  my  |x>or  Dove  is  sick,  and  I  cannot  take 
her  to  my  bosom.  I  do  really  feel  as  if  I  could 
cure  her.  [Portion  of  letter  missing]  Oh,  my 
dearest,  do  let  our  love  be  powerful  enough  to 
make  you  well.  I  will  have  faith  in  its  efficacy  — 
not  that  it  will  work  an  immediate  miracle  —  but 
it  shall  make  you  so  well  at  heart  that  you  can 
not  possibly  be  ill  in  the  body.  Partake  of  my 

34 


health  and  strength,  my  beloved.  Are  they  not 
your  own,  as  well  as  mine?  Yes — and  your  ill 
ness  is  mine  as  well  as  yours;  and  with  all  the  pain 
it  gives  me,  the  whole  world  should  not  buy  my 
right  to  share  in  it. 

My  dearest,  I  will  not  be  much  troubled,  since 
you  tell  me  (and  your  word  is  always  truth)  that 
there  is  no  need.  But,  oh,  be  careful  of  yourself 
— remembering  how  much  earthly  happiness  de 
pends  on  your  health.  Be  tranquil  —  let  me  be 
your  Peace,  as  you  are  mine.  Do  not  write  to  me, 
unless  your  heart  be  unquiet,  and  you  think  that 
you  can  quiet  it  by  writing. 

God  bless  mine  own  Dove.  I  have  kissed  those 
three  last  words.  Do  you  kiss  them  too. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


35 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Wednesday  eveg.  July  I  7th   [1839] 
My  Dearest, 

\  did  not  know  but  you  would  like  another  little 
note  —  and  I  think  I  feel  a  strange  impulse  to 
write,  now  that  the  whole  correspondence  devolves 
on  me.  And  I  wrote  my  other  note  in  such  a  hurry, 
that  I  quite  forgot  to  give  you  the  praise  which  you 
so  deserved,  for  hearing  up  so  stoutly  against  the 
terrible  misfortune  of  my  non-appearance.  Indeed, 
I  do  think  my  Dove  is  the  strongest  little  dove  that 
ever  was  created  —  never  did  any  creature  live, 
who  could  feel  so  acutely,  and  yet  endure  so  well. 

This  note  must  be  a  mere  word,  my  beloved— 
and  I  wish  I  could  make  it  the  very  tenderest  word 
that  ever  was  spoken  or  written.     Imagine  all 
that  I  cannot  write. 

God  bless  you,  mine  own  Dove,  and  make  you 
quite  well  against  I  take  you  to  your  home  — 
which  shall  be  on  Saturday  eveg,  without  tail. 
Till  then,  dearest,  spend  your  time  in  happy 

36 


thoughts  and  happy  dreams — and  let  my  image  he 
among  them.  Good  hye,  mine  .  own  Dove — I 
have  kissed  that  holy  word. 

YOUR  OWN,  OWN,  OWNEST. 
My  Dove  must  not  look  for  another  note. 

! 

To  Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


37 


TO  iMlSS  1'EABODY 


Boston,  July  24"',  1839—8  o'clock  P.  M. 
Mine  own* 

I  am  tired  this  evening,  as  usual,  with  my  long 
day's  toil  ;  and  my  head  wants  its  pillow  —  and  my 
soul  yearns  for  the  friend  whom  God  has  given  it 
—whose  soul  He  has  married  to  mv  soul.  Oh, 
my  dearest,  how  that  thought  thrills  me!  We 
are  married!  I  felt  it  long  ago;  and  sometimes, 
when  I  was  seeking  for  some  fondest  word,  it  has 
been  on  my  lips  to  call  you  —  ''Wife"  !  I  hardly 
know  what  restrained  me  from  speaking  it  —  un 
less  a  dread  (for  that  would  have  been  an  infinite 
pang  to  me)  of  feeling  you  shrink  back,  and  there 
by  discovering  that  there  was  yet  a"  deep  place  in 
your  soul  which  did  not  know  me.  Mine  own 
Dove,  need  I  fear  it  now?  Are  we  not  married? 
God  knows  we  are.  Often,  I  have  silently  given 
myself  to  you,  and  received  you  for  my  portion  of 
human  love  and  happiness,  and  have  prayed  Him 
to  .consecrate  and  bless  the  union.  Yes  —  we  are 

38 


married;  and  as  (rod  Himself  has  joined  us,  we 
may  trust  never  to  be  separated,  neither  in  Heaven 
nor  on  Earth.  We  will  wait  patiently  and 
cjiiietly,  and  He  will  lead  us  onward  hand  in  hand 
(as  He  has  .done  all  along)  like  little  children, 
and  will  guide  us  to  our  perfect  happiness— and 
will  teach  us  when  our  union  is  to  be  revealed  tc 
the  world.  My  beloved,  why  should  we  be  silent 
to  one  another — why  should  our  lips  be  silent— 
an)'  longer  on  this  subject?  The  world  might,  as 
yet,  misjudge  us;  and  therefore  we  will  not  speak 
to  the  world;  but  why  should  we  not  commune  to 
gether  about  all  our  hopes  of  earthly  and  external 
as  well  |  as  j  our  faith  of  inward  and  eternal 
union V  Farewell  for  tonight,  my  dearest — my 
soul's  bride! 

July  29th.  S  o'clock,  P.M.  How  does  my 
Dove  contrive  to  live  and,  thrive,  and  keep  her 
heart  in  cheerful  trim,  through  a  whole  fortnight, 
with  only  one  letter  from  me?  It  cannot  be  in 
difference;  so  it  must  be  heroism  —  and  how  he 
roic!  It  does  seem  to  me  that  my  spirit  would 
droop  and  wither  like  a  plant  that  lacked  rain  and 
xiew,  if  it  were  not  for  the  frequent  shower  of 
your  gentle  and  holy  thoughts.  But  then  there 
is  such  a  difference  in  our  situations.  My  Dove 
is  at  home — not,  indeed,  in  her  home  of  homes — 

39 


but  still  in  the  midst  of  true  affections;  anc}  she 
can  I*  -2  a  spiritual  life,  spiritual  and  intellectual. 
Now,  my  intellect,  and  my  heart  and  soul,  have 
no.  share  in  my  present  mode  of  life — they  find 
neither  labor  nor  food  in  it;  everything  that  I  do 
here  might  be  better  done  by  a  machine.  I  am  a 
machine,  and  am  surrounded  by  hundreds  of  simi 
lar  machines; — or  rather,  all  of  the  business  peo 
ple  are  so  many  wheels  of  one  great  machine — and 
we  have  no  more  love  or  sympathy  for  one  another 
than  if  we  were  made  of  wood,  brass,  or  iron,  like 
the  wheels  of  other  pieces  of  complicated 
machinery.  Perchance — but  do  not  be  fright 
ened,  dearest — the  soul  would  wither  and  die 
within  me,  leaving  nothing  but  the  busy  machine, 
no  germ  for  immortality,  nothing  that  could  taste 
of  heaven,  if  it  were  not  for  the  consciousness  of 
your  deep,  deep  love,  which  is  renewed  to  me  with 
every  letter.  Oh,  my  Dove,  I  have  really  thought 
sometimes,  that  God  gave  you  to  me  to  be  the  sal 
vation  of  my  soul. 

(Rest  of  letter  missing) 


40 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  July  3Oth,  8  (or  thereabouts)  P.  M.  [1839] 
Beloved, 

There  was  no  letter  from  you  to-day  :  and  this 
circumstance,  in  connection  with  your  mention  of 
a  headache  on  Sunday,  made  me  apprehensive  that 
my  Dove  is  not  well.  Yet  surely  she  would  write, 
or  cause  to  he  written,  intelligence  of  the  fact  (if 
fact  it  were)  to  the  sharer  of  her  well-being  and 
ill-being.  Do,  dearest,  give  me  the  assurance  that 
you  will  never  be  ill  without  letting  me  know,  and 
then  I  shall  always  he  at  peace,  and  will  not  dis 
quiet  myself  for  the  non-reception  of  a  letter;  for 
really,  I  would  not  have  you  crowd  your  other 
duties  into  too  small  a  space,  nor  dispense  with 
anything  that  it  is  desirable  to  do,  for  the  sake  of 
writing  to  me.  If  you  were  not  to  write  for  a 
whole  year,  I  still  should  never  doubt  that  you 
love  me  infinitely  ;  and  I  doubt  not  that,  in  vision, 
dream,  or  reverie,  our  wedded  souls  would  hold 
communion  throughout  all  that  time.  Therefore 

4* 


F  do  not  ask  tor  letters  \vliilr  you  are  well,  but 
leave  all  to  your  own  heart  and  judgment;  hut  if 
anything,  bodily  or  mental,  afflicts  my  Dove,  her 
beloved  tnust  be  told. 

And  why  was  my  dearest  wounded  by  that  silly 
sentence  of  mine  about  "indifference" ?  It  was 
not  well  that  she  should  do  anything  but  smile  at 
it.  I  knew,  just  as  certainly  as  your  own  heart 
knows,  that  my  letters  are  very  precious  to  }  on- 
had  I  been  less  certain  of  it,  I  never  could  have 
trifled  upoi  "he  subject.  Oh,  my  darling,  let  all 
your  sensibilities  be  healthy — never,  never,  be 
wounded  by  what  ought  not  ro  wound.  Our  ten 
derness  should  make  us  mutually  susceptible  of 
happiness  from  every  act  of  each  other,  but  of 
pain  from  none;  our  mighty  love  should  scorn  all 
little  annoyances,  even  from  the  object  of  that 
love.  What  misery  ( and  what  ridiculous  misery 
too)  would  it  be,  if,  because  we  love  one  another 
better  than  all  the  universe  besides,  our  only  gain 
thereby  were  a  more  exquisite  sensibility  to  pain 
for  the  beloved  hand  and  a  more  terrible  power  of 
inflicting  it!  Dearest,  it  never  shall  be  so  with 
us.  We  will  have  such  an  infinity  of  mutual 
faith,  that  even  real  offenses  ( shoidd  they  ever  oc 
cur)  shall  not  wound,  because  we  know  that  some 
thing  external  from  yourself  or  myself  must  be 

41 


guilty  of  the  wrong,  and  never  our  essential  selves. 
My  beloved  wife,  there  is  no  need  of  all  this 
preachment  now;  hut  let  us  hoth  meditate  upon  it, 
and  talk  to  each  other  about  it; — so  shall  there 
never  come  any  cloud  across  our  inward  bliss — so 
>hall  one  of  our  hearts  never  wound  the  other,  and 
itself  fester  with  the  sore  that  it  inflicts.  And  T 
•>peak  now,  when  my  Dove  is  not  wounded  nor 
sore,  because  it  is  easier  than  it  might  be  hereafter, 
when  some  careless  and  wayward  act  or  word  of 
mine  may  have  rubbed  too  roughly  against  her  ten- 
derest  of  hearts.  Dearest,  I  beseech  you  grant  me 
freedom  to  be  careless  and  wayward — for  I  have 
had  such  freedom  all  my  life.  Oh,  let  me  feel 
that  I  may  even  do  you  a  little  wrong  without 
your  avenging  it  (oh  how  cruelly)  by  being 
wounded. 

(Rest  of  letter  missing) 


43 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Custom  House,  August  8th,  1839 
Your  letter,  my  beloved  wife,  was  duly  received 
into  your  husband's  heart  yesterday.  I  found  it 
impossible  to  keep  it  all  day  long,  with  unbroken 
seal,  in  my  pocket;  and  so  I  opened  and  read  it  on 
board  of  a  salt  vessel,  where  I  was  at  work,  amid 
all  sorts  of  bustle,  and  gabble  of  Irishmen,  and 
other  incommodities.  Nevertheless  its  effect  was 
very  blessed,  even  as  if  I  had  gazed  upward  from 
the  deck  of  the  vessel,  and  beheld  my  wife's  sweet 
face  looking  down  upon  me  from  a  sun-brightened 
cloud.  Dearest,  it  your  dove-  wings  will  not 
carry  you  so  far,  I  beseech  you  to  alight  upon  such 
a  cloud  sometimes,  and  let  it  bear  you  to  me. 
True  it  is,  that  I  never  look  heavenward  without 
thinking  of  you,  and  I  doubt  whether  it  would 
much  surprise  me  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  you  among 
those  upi*r  regions.  Then  would  all  that  is 
spiritual  within  me  so  yearn  towards  you,  that  I 
should  leave  my  earthly  incumbrances  behind,  and 

44 


float  upward  and  embrace  you  in  the  heavenh 
sunshine.  Yet  methinks  I  shall  he  more  content 
to  spend  a  lifetime  of  earthly  and  heavenly  happi 
ness  intermixed.  So  human  am  I,  my  beloved, 
rhat  I  would  not  give  up  the  hope  of  loving  and 
cherishing  you  by  a  fireside  of  our  own,  not  for 
any  unimaginable  bliss  of  higher  spheres.  Your 
influence  shall  purify  me  and  tit  me  for  a  better 
world — but  it  shall  be  by  means  of  our  happi 
ness  here  below. 

Was  such  a  rhapsody  as  the  foregoing  ever 
written  in  the  Custom  House  before?  I  have  al 
most  felt  it  a  sin  to  write  to  my  Dove  here,  because 
her  image  comes  before  me  so  vividly — and  the 
place  is  not  worthy  of  it.  Nevertheless,  1  cast 
aside  my  scruples,  because,  having  been  awake 
ever  since  four  o'clock  this  morning  (now  thirteen 
hours)  and  abroad  since  sunrise,  I  shall  feel 
more  like  holding  intercourse  in  dreams  than 
with  my  pen,  when  secluded  in  my  room.  I 
am  not  quite  hopeless,  now,  of  meeting  you 
m  dreams.  Did  you  not  know,  beloved,  that 
I  dreamed  of  you,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  all 
night  long,  after  that  last  blissful  meeting?  It  is 
true,  when  L  looked  back  upon  the  dream,  it  im 
mediately  became  confused;  but  it  had  been  vivid, 
and  most  happy,  and  left  a  sense  of  happiness  in 

4? 


my  heart.  Come  again,  sweet  wife!  Force  your 
way  through  the  mists  and  vapors  that  envelope 
my  slumbers — illumine  me  with  a  radia-.ce  that 
shall  not  vanish  when  I  awake.  I  throw  my  heart 
as  wide  open  to  you  as  I  can.  Come  and  rest 
within  it,  Dove. 

Oh,  how  happy  you  make  me  by  calling  me 
your  husband  —  by  subscribing  yourself  my  wife. 
I  kiss  that  word  when  I  meet  it  in  your  letters;  and 
I  repeat  over  and  over  to  myself,  ltshe  is  my  wif'e 
—  I  am  her  husband."  Dearest,  I  could  almost 
think  that  the  institution  of  marriage  was  or 
dained,  first  of  all,  for  you  and  me,  and  for  you  and 
me  alone;  it  seems  so  fresh  and  new  —  so  unlike 
anything  that  the  people  around  us  enjoy  or  are 
acquainted  with.  Nobody  ever-  had  a  wife  but 
me  — nobody  a  husband,  save  my  Dove.  Would 
that  the  husband  were  worthier  of  his  wife;  but 
she  loves  him  —  and  her  wise  and  prophetic  heart 
could  never  do  so  if  he  were  utterly  unworthy. 

My  own  Room.  August  gth  — about  10  A.M. 
It  is  so  rare  a  thing  for  your  husband  to  find  him 
self  in  his  own  room  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon, 
that  he  cannot  help  advising  his  Dove  of  that  re 
markable  fact.  By  some  misunderstanding,  I  was 
sent  on  a  fruitless  errand  to  East  Cambridge,  and 
have  stopped  here,  on  my  return  to  the  Custom 


House,  to  rest  and  refresh  myself — and  what  can 
so  rest  and  refresh  me  as  to  hold  intercourse  with 
my  darling  wife"?  It  must  be  but  a  word  and  a 
kiss,  however — a  written  word  and  a  shadowy 
kiss.  Good  bye,  dearest.  I  must  go  now  to  hold 
controversy,  I  suppose,  with  some  plaguy  little 
Frenchman  about  a  peck  of  coal  more  or  less ;  but 
I  will  give  my  beloved  another  word  and  kiss, 
when  the  day's  toil  is  over. 

About  8  o'clock  P.M.  —  l  received  your  letter, 
your  sweet,  sweet  letter,  my  sweetest  wife,  on 
reaching  the  Custom  House.  Now  as  to  that 
swelled  face  of  ours — it  had  begun  to  swell  when 
we  last  met;  but  I  did  not  tell  you,  because  I 
knew  that  you  would  associate  the  idea  of  pain 
with  it,  whereas,  it  was  attended  with  no  pain  at 
all.  Very  glad  am  I,  that  my  Dove  did  not  see 
me  when  one  side  of  my  face  was  swollen 
as  big  as  two,  for  the  image  of  such  a  mon 
strous  one-sidedness,  or  double-sidedness,  might 
have  haunted  her  memory  through  the  whole 
fortnight.  Dearest,  is  it  a  weakness  that 
your  husband  wishes  to  look  tolerably  comely 
always  in  your  eyes? — and  beautiful  if  he 
could!  !  My  Dove  is  beautiful,  and  full  of 
grace;  she  should  not  have  an  ugly  mate.  But  to 
return  to  this  "naughty  swelling"  —  it  began  to 

47 


subside  on  Tuesday,  and  has  now,  I  think,  entireh 
disappeared,  leaving  my  visage  in  its  former  ad 
mirable  proportion.  Nothing  is  now  the  matter 
with  me;  save  that  my  heart  is  as  much  swollen  as 
my  cheek  was — swollen  with  love,  with  pent-up 
'^-  e,  which  I  would  tain  mingle  with  the  heart- 
flood  of  mine  own  sweet  wife.  Oh,  dearest,  how 
much  I  have  to  say  to  you!  —  how  many  fond 
thoughts. 

Dearest,  I  dare  noc  give  you  |>ermission  to  go 
out  in  the  east  winds.  The  west  wind  will  come 
very  often  I  am  sure,  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake 
of  my  Dove.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  that  hate 
ful  east  wind. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PKABODY 


Boston,  August  21st,  1839 

My  dearest  will  be  glad  to  know  that  her  hus 
band  has  not  had  to  endure  the  heavy  sunshine  this 
afternoon;  —  he  eanie  home  at  three  ('clock  or 
thereabout,  and  locking  the  door,  betook  himself 
to  sleep  —  first  ensuring  himself  sweet  slumber  and 
blissful  dreams  (it  any  dreams  should  come)  by 
reperusing  his  sweet  wife's  letter.  His  wife  was 
with  him  at  the  moment  of  falling  asleep,  and  at 
the  moment  of  awaking;  but  she  stole  away  from 
him  during  the  interval.  Naughty  wife!  Never 
theless,  he  has  slept  and  is  refreshed  —  slept  how 
long  he  does  not  know  ;  but  the  sun  has  made  a  far 
progress  downward,  since  he  closed  his  eyes. 

Oh,  my  wife,  if  it  were  possible  that  you  should 
vanish  from  me,  I  feel  and  know  that  my  soul 
would  be  solitary  forever  and  ever.  I  almost  think 
that  there  would  be  no  "forever"  for  me.  1  could 
not  encounter  such  a  desolate  Eternity,  were  )ou  w 
leave  me.  You  are  my  first  hojxr  and  my  last. 

49 


If  you  fail  me  (hut  there  is  no  such  if)  I  might 
toil  onward  through  this  life  without  much  out 
ward  change,  hut  I  should  sink  down  and  die  ut 
terly  upon  the  threshold  of  the  dreary  Future. 
Were  \ou  to  find  yourself  deceived,  you  would  he- 
take  yourself  at  once  to  God  and  Heaven,  in  the 
certainty  of  there  finding  a  thousand-fold  recom 
pense  for  all  earthly  disappointment ;  but  with  me, 
it  seems  as  if  hope  and  happiness  would  he  torn 
up  hy  the  roots,  and  could  never  bloom  again, 
neither  in  this  soil  nor  the  soil  of  Paradise. 

August  22d.  Five  or  six  o'clock  P.M.  I  was 
interrupted  by  the  supper  bell,  while  writing  the 
foregoing  sentence;  and  much  that  I  might  have 
added  has  now  passed  out  of  my  mind — or  passed 
into  its  depths.  My  beloved  wife,  let  us  make  no 
question  about  our  love,  whether  it  be  true.  Were 
it  otherwise,  God  would  not  have  left  your  heart 
to  wreck  itself  utterly  — His  angels  keep  watch 
over  you — they  would  have  given  you  early  and 
continued  warning  of  the  approach  of  Evil  in  any 
shape. 

Two  letters  has  my  Dove  blessed  me  with,  since 
that  of  Monday— both  beautiful  — all  three,  in 
deed,  most  beautiful.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  all 
of  them  that  should  be  especially  answered;  but 
how  may  this  be  effected  in  one  little  sheet k>- 

50 


morrover,  it  is  my  pleasure  to  write  in  a  more  de 
sultory  fashion. 

Nevertheless,  propound  as  man)  questions  as 
you  see  fit,  in  your  letters,  hut,  dearest,  let  it  he 
without  expectation  of  a  set  response. 

When  I  first  looked  at  that  shadow  of  the  Pass 
ing  Hour,  I  thought  her  expression  too  sad;  hut 
the  more  I  looked  the  sweeter  and  pleasanter  it 
grew —  and  now  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  few 
mortals  are  waited  on  by  happier  Hours  than  is 
my  Dove,  even  in  her  pensive  moods.  My  be 
loved,  you  make  a  Heaven  round  about  you,  and 
dwell  in  it  continually;  and  as  it  is  your 
Heaven,  so  is  it  mine.  My  heart  has  not  been 
very  heavy  —  not  desperately  heavy — any  one 
time  since  I  loved  you;  not  even  your  illness 
and  headaches,  dearest  wife,  can  make  me  desper 
ately  sad.  My  stock  of  sunshine  is  so  infinitely 
increased  by  partaking  of  yours,  that  even  when  a 
cloud  flits  by,  I  incomparably  prefer  its  gloom  to 
the  sullen,  leaden  jinge  that  used  to  overspread  my 
sky.  Were  you  to  bring  me,  in  outward  appear 
ance,  nothing  save  a  load  of  grief  and  pain,  yet  I 
do  believe  that  happiness,  in  no  stinted  measure, 
would  somehow  or  other  be  smuggled  into  the  dis 
mal  burthen.  But  you  come  to  me  with  no  grief 
— no  pain — you  come  with  flowers  of  Paradise; 

51 


some  in  bloom,  many  in  the  bud,  and  all  of  them 
immortal. 

August  2 ^d  — between  7  and  8  P.M.  Dearest 
wife,  when  I  think  how  soon  this  letter  will  greet 
you,  it  makes  rny  heart  yearn  towards  you  so  much 
the  more.  How  much  of  life  we  waste!  Oh, 
beloved,  if  we  had  but  a  cottage  somewhere  be 
yond  the  sway  of  the  east  wind,  yet  within  the 
limits  of  New  England,  where  we  could  be  always 
together,  and  have  a  place  to  he  in  —  what  could 
we  desire  more?  Nothing — save  daily  bread,  (or 
rather  bread  and  milk,  for  I  think  I  should  adopt 
your  diet)  and  clean  white  apparel  every  day  for 
mine  unspotted  Dove.  Then  how  happy  I  would  ~7  *" 
be — and  how  g<x>d!  I  could  not  be  other  than 
good  and  happy,  when  your  kiss  would  sanctify 
me  at  all  my  outgoings  and  incomings.  And  you 
should  draw,  and  paint,  and  sculpture,  and  make 
music,  and  }x)etr\  too,  and  your  husband  would 
admire  and  criticise;  ami  I,  being  pervaded  with 
your  spirit,  would  write  beautifully  and  make  my 
self  famous  for  your  sake,  because  perhaps  you 
would  like  to  have  the  world  acknowledge  me  — 
but  if  the  whole  world  glorified  me  with  one  voice, 
it  would  be  a  meed  of  little  value  in  comparison 
with  my  wife's  smile  and  kiss.  For  I  shall  always 
read  my  manuscripts  to  you,  in  the  summer  after-- 


noons  or  winter  evenings;  and  if  they  please  you  T 
shall  expect  a  smile  and  a  kiss  as  my  reward — and 
if  they  do  not  please,  I  must  have  a  smile  and  kiss 
to  comfort  me. 

Good  bye — sweet,  sweet,  dear,  dear,  sweetest, 
dearest  wife.  I  received  the  kiss  you  sent  me  and 
have  treasured  it  up  in  my  heart.  Take  one  from 
your  own  husband. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  A.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PKABODY 


Boston,  August  25th,  1839 
Dearest  Wife, 

I  did  not  write  you  yesterday,  tor  several  rea 
sons  —  partly  because  I  was  interrupted  by  com 
pany;  and  also  I  had  a  difficult  letter  to  project 
and  execute  in  behalf  of  an  ol  lice-seeker;  and  in 
the  afternoon  I  fell  asleep  amid  thoughts  of  my 
own  Dove;  and  when  I  awoke,  I  took  up  Miss 
Martineaifs  Deerbrook,  and  became  interested  in 
it  —  because,  being  1113  self  a  lover,  nothing  that 
treats  earnestly  of  love  can  be  indifferent  to  me. 
Some  truth  in  the  book  I  recognised  —  but  there 
seems  to  be  too  much  of  dismal  fantasy. 

Thus,  one  way  or  another,  rhe  Sabbath  passed 
away  without  my  pouring  out  my  heart  to  my 
sweet  wife  on  paper;  but  I  thought  of  you,  dear 
est,  all  day  long.  Your  letter  came  this  foreruxm, 
and  I  opened  it  on  board  of  a  salt-ship,  and 

54 


portions  of  it  in  the  intervals  of  keep 
ing  tally.  Every  letter  ot  yours  is  as  fresh  and 
new  as  if  you  had  never  written  a  preceding 
one  —  each  is  like  a  strain  ot  music  unheard 
before,  vet  all  are  int  sweet  accordance- 
all  of  them  introduce  me  deeper  and  deeper 
into  your  being,  yet  there  is  no  sense  of  surprise  at 
what  I  see,  and  feel,  and  know,  therein.  I  am 
familiar  with  vour  inner  heart,  as  with  my  home; 
but  yet  there  is  a  sense  of  revelation — or  perhaps 
of  recovered  intimacy  with  a  dearest  friend  long 
hidden  from  me.  Were  you  not  my  wite  in  some 
past  eternity  ? 

Dearest,  perhaps  these  speculations  are  not 
wise.  We  will  not  cast  dreamy  glances  too  far 
behind  us  or  before  us,  but  live  our  present  lite  in 
simplicity;  tor  methinks  that  is  the  way  to  realise 
it  most  intense!}.  Good  night,  most  beloved. 
Your  husband  is  presently  going  to  bed;  for  the 
bell  has  just  rung  (those  bells  are  always  inter 
rupting  us,  whether  tor  dinner,  or  supper,  or  bed 
time)  and  he  rose  early  this  morning,  and  must  be 
abroad  at  sunrise  tomorrow.  G(x>d  night,  my 
wife.  Receive  your  husband's  kiss  upon  your 
fcyelids. 

August  lyth.      y2  past  7  o'clock.     Very  dear- 

55 


<\st,  your  husband  has  been  stationed  all  day  at  the 
end  of  Long  Wharf,  and  I  rather  think  that  he 
had  the  most  eligible  situation  of  anybody  in  Bos 
ton.  I  was  aware  that  it  must  be  intensely  hot  in 
the  middle  of  the  city;  but  there  was  only  a  very 
short  space  of  uncomfortable  heat  in  my  region, 
half-way  towards  the  center  of  the  harbour;  and 
almost  all  the  time  there  was  a  pure  and  delight 
ful  breeze,  fluttering  and  palpitating,  sometimes 
shyly  kissing  my  brow,  then  dying  away,  and  then 
rushing  upon  me  in  livelier  sport,  so  that  I  was 
fain  to  settle  my  straw  hat  tighter  upon  my  head. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  there  was  a  sunny  shower, 
which  came  down  so  like  a  benediction,  that  it 
seemed  ungrateful  to  take  shelter  in  the. cabin,  or 
to  put  up  an  umbrella.  Then  there  was  a  rain 
bow,  or  a  large  segment  of  one,  so  exceedingly 
brilliant,  and  of  such  long  endurance,  that  I  alj 
most  fancied  it  was  stained  into  the  sky,  and 
would  continue  there  permanently.  And  there 
were  clouds  floating  all  about,  great  clouds  and 
small,  of  all  glorious  and  lovely  hues  (save  that 
imperial  crimson,  which  was  never  revealed  save 
to  our  united  gaze)  so  glorious,  indeed,  and  so 
lovely,  that  I  had  a  fantasy  of  Heaven's  being 
broken  into  fleecy  fragments,  and  dispersed 

56 


throughout  space,  with  its  blessed  inhabitants  yet 
dwelling  blissfully  upon  those  scattered  islands. 
Oh,  how  1  do  wish  that  my  sweet  wile  and  1  could 
dwell  upon  a  cloud,  and  follow  the  sunse't  round 
about  the  earth!  Perhaps  she  might;  but  my  na 
ture  is  too  earthy  to  permit  me  to  dwell  there  with 
her— and  I  know  well  that  she  would  not  leave  me 
here.  Dearest,  how  I  longed  tor  you  to  be  with 
me,  both  in  the  shower  and  the  sunshine.  I  did 
but  halt  see  what  was  to  be  seen,  nor  but  half  feel 
the  emotions  which  the  scene  ought  to  have  pro 
duced.  Had  you  been  there.  I  do  think  that  we 
should  have  remembered  this  among  our  most 
wondrously  beautiful  sunsets.  And  the  sea  was 
very  beautiful  too.  Would  it  not  be  a  pleasant 
lite  to — but  I  will  not  sketch  out  any  more  fan 
tasies  tonight. 

Beloved,  have  not  1  been  gone  a  great  while V 
Truly  it  seems  to  me  very  long;  and  it  |is[ 
strange  what  an  increase  of  apparent  length  is  al 
ways  added  by  two  or  three  davs  of  the  second 
week.  Do  not  you  yearn  to  see  me?  I  know 
you  do,  dearest.  How  do  !  know  it?  How 
should  I,  save  by  my  own  heart? 

Dearest  wife,  I  am  tired  now,  and  have  scrib 
bled  this  letter  in  such  slovenly  fashion  that  I  fear 

y? 


you  will  hardly  be  able  to  read  it  —  nevertheless, 
I    have    been    happy  .in    writing    it.      But    now, 
though  it  is  so  early  vet,  I  shall  throw  aside  my 
pen,  especially  as  the  paper  is  so  nearly  covered. 
My  sweet  Dove, 

Good  night. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  September  2  3d  1839.  »;,  past  6  P.  M. 
Bclovedest  little  wife  —  sweetest  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  —  what  a  .delicious  walk  that  was,  last 
Thursday!  It  seems  to  me,  now,  as  it  I  could 
really  remember  every  footstep  of  it.  It  is  almost 
as  distinct  as  the  recollection  of  those  walks,  in 
which  my  earthly  form  did  really  tread  beside 
your  own,  and  my  arm  upheld  you;  and,  indeed, 
it  has  the  same  character  as  those  heavenly  ram- 
blinds;  —  for  did  we  tread  on  earth  ever  then? 
Oh  no—  our  souls  went  far  away  among  the  sun 
set  clouds,  and  wherever  there  was  ethereal 
beauty,  there  were  we.  our  true  selves;  and  it  was 
there  we  grew  into  each  other,  and  became  a  mar 
ried  pair.  Dearest,  I  love  -to  date  our  marriage  as 
far  back  as  |>ossible,  and  I  feel  sure  that  the  tie 
had  been  formed,  and  our  union  had  become  in- 

59 


dissoluble,  even  before  we  sat  clown  together  on 
the  >teps  of  the  "house  of  spirits."  How  beauti 
ful  and  blessed  those  hours  appear  to  me!  True; 
we  are  far  more  conscious  of  our  relation,  and 
therefore  infinitely  happier,  now,  than  we  were 
then;  but  still  those  remembrances  are  among  the 
most  precious  treasures  of  my  soul.  It  is  not  past 
happiness;  it  makes  a  portion  of  our  present  bliss. 
And  thus,  doubtless,  even  amid  the  joys  of 
Heaven,  we  shall  love  to  look  back  to  our  earthly 
bliss,  and  treasure  it  forever  in  the  sum  of  ar.  in 
finitely  accumulating  happiness.  Perhaps  not  a 
single  pressure  of  the  hand,  not  a  glance,  not  a 
sweet  and  tender  tone,  but  will  be  repeated  some 
time  or  other  in  our  memory. 

Oh,  dearest,  blessedest  Dove,  I  never  felt  sure 
of  going  to  Heaven,  till  I  knew  that  you  loved 
me;  but  now  I  am  conscious  of  God's  love  in  your 
own.-  And  now,  good  bye  for  a  little  while,  mine 
own  wife.  I  thought  it  was  just  on  the  verge  of 
supper-time  when  I  began  to  write — and  there  is 
the  bell  now.  \  was  beginning  to  fear  that  it  had 
rung  unheard  while  I  was  communing  with  my 
Dove.  Should  we  be  the  more  ethereal,  if  we 
did  not  eatV  I  have  a  most  human  and  earthly 
appetite. 

60 


Mine  own  wife,  since*  .supper  I  have  been  read 
ing  ovrr  again  (tor  the  third  time  —  the  two  first 
being  aboard  my  saltship—  the  Marcia  Cleaves) 
your  letter  of  yesterday  —  and  a  dearest  letter  it  is 

—  and  meeting  with  Sophie  Hawthorne  twice,  I 
took  the  liberty  to  kiss  her  very  fervently.      Will 
>he    forgive    me?      Do    know    yourself    by    that 
name,   dearest,   and   think  of  yourself  as  Sophie 
Hawthorne?     It  thrills  my  heart  to  write  it,  and 
still  more,  I  think,  to  read  it.  in  the  fairy  letters  of 
your  own  hand.     Oh.  you  are  my  wife,  my  dear 
est,  truest,  tenderest,  most  beloved  wife.      I  would 
not  be  disjoined  from  you  for  u  moment,  for  all 
the  world.      And  how  strong,  while  I  write,  is  the 
consciousness  that  I  am  truly  your  husband! 

My  little  Dove.  I  have  observed  that  butterflies 

—  very  broad-winged  and  magnificent  butterflies 

—  frequently  come  on  board  of  the  salt  ship  when 
I  am  at  work.     What  have  these  bright  strangers 
to  do  on  Ix)ng  Wharf,  where  there  are  no  flowers 
or    any    green    thing — nothing   but   brick   stores, 
stone  piles,  black  ships,  and  the  bustle  of  toilsome 
men,  who  neither  look  up  to  the  blue  sky.  nor  take 
note  of  these  wandering  gems  of  air.      I  cannot 
account   for  them,   unless,   dearest,   they  are  the 
lovely   fantasies  of  your  mind,   which  you  send 

6l 


thither  in  search  of  me.     There  is  the  supper-hell. 
Good-hye,  darling. 

Sept.  2  ^th.  Morning.— Dove,  I  have  but  a  sin 
gle  moment  to  embrace  you.  Tell  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  I  love  her.  Has  she  a  partiality  for  her 

own,  own 

HUSBAND. 


62 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Custom  House*  October  ioth,  1839  —  -  ^  past  2  P.  M. 

Belovedest,  your  two  precious  letters  have  ar 
rived  —  the  first  yesterday  forenoon,  the  second 
today.  In  regard  to  the  first,  there  was  a  little 
circumstance  that  affected  me  so  pleasantly,  that 
I  cannot  help  telling  my  sweetest  wife  of  it.  I 
had  read  it  over  three  times,  !  believe,  and  was 
reading  it  again,  towards  evening  in  my  room  ; 
when  I  discovered,  in  a  remote  region  of  the  sheet, 
two  or  three  lines  which  I  had  not  before  seen,  and 
which  Sophie  Hawthorne  had  signed  with  her 
own  name.  It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world 
that  I  had  not  read  them  before  —  but  certainly  it 
was  a  happy  accident  :  for.  finding  them  so  unex 
pectedly,  when  I  supposed  that  I  already  had  the 
whole  letter  by  heart,  it  seemed  as  if  there  had 
been  a  sudden  revelation  of  my  Dove  —  as  if  she 
had  stolen  into  my  room  (as,  in  her  last  epistle, 
she  dreams  of  doing)  and  made  me  sensible  of  her 
presence  at  that  very  moment.  Dearest,  since 

63 


writing  the  above,  I  have  been  interrupted  by 
some  official  business;  for  I  nm  at  present  rilling 
the  place  of  Colonel ,  Hall  as  head  of  the  meas 
urers1  department  — which  may  account  tor  my 
writing  to  you  from  the  Custom  House.  It  is  the 
most  un^enial  place  in  the  whole  world  to  write 
a  love-letter  in:  —  not  but  what  my  heart  is  full 
of  love,  here  as  elsewhere:  but  it  closes  up,  and 
will  not  give  forth  its  treasure  now. 

I  do  wish  mine  own  Dove  had  been  with  me,  on 
my  last  passage  to  Boston.  We  should  assuredly 
have  thought  that  a  miracle  had  been  wrought  in 
our  favor— that  Providence  had  put  angelic  sen 
tinels  round  about  us,  to  ensure  us  the  quiet  en 
joyment  of  our  affection- -for,  as  tar  as  Lynn,  I 
was  actually  the  sole  occupant  of  the  car  in  which 
I  had  seated  myself.  What  a  blissful  solitude 
would  that  have  been,  had  my  whole  self  been 
there!  Then  would  we  have  flown  through  space 
like  two  disembodied  spirits  -  two  or  one.  Are  we 
singular  or  plural,  dearest?  Ha^  not  each  of  us  a 
right  to  use  the  nrst  person  singular,  when  speak 
ing  in  behalf  of  our  united  being?  Does  not  "I," 
whether  spoken  by  Sophie  Hawthorne's  lips  or 
mine,  express  the  one  spirit  of  myself  and  that 
darl invest  Sophie  Hawthorne V  But  what  a  wil 
ful  little  |>erson  she  is!  Does  she  still  refuse  my 


Dove's  proffer  to  kis>  her  check?  Well-—- 1  shall 
contrive  sonic  suitable  punishment;  and  it  my 
Dove  cannot  kiss  her,  I  must  undertake  the  task 
in  person.  What  a  painlul  duty  it  will  he! 

October  1  ith —  '/.  past  4  KM.      Did  my  Dovt 
fly  in  with  me  in  my  chamber  when  i  entered  just 
now?      It  so,  let  her  make  herself  manifest  to  me 
this  very  moment,  for  my  heart  needs  her  presence. 
-You  are  not  here  dearest.      1  sit  writing  in  the 
middle  oi  the  chamber,  opposite  the  looking-glass; 
and  as  soon  as  I  finish  this  sentence,  I  shall  look 
therein  —  and  really  I  have  something  like  a  shad 
owy  notion,  that  I  shall  behold  mine  own  white 
Dove  peeping  over  my  shoulder.      One  moment 
nore — I  defer  the  experiment  as  long  as  |>ossible, 
because  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  slight  tremor  of 
the  heart  that  this  fantasy  has  awakened.      Dear 
est,  if  you  can  make  me  sensible  of  your  presence, 
do    it    now!  —  Oh,    naughty,    naughty    Dove!      I 
have  looked,  and  saw  nothing  but  my  own  dark 
face  and  beetle-brow.     How  could  you  disappoint 
me  so?     Or  is  it  merely  the  defect  in  my  own 
eyes,  which  cannot  behold  the  spiritual?     My  in 
ward   eye   can    behold   you,    though    but    dimly. 
Perhaps,  beloved  wife,  you  did  not  come  when  I 
called,  because  you  mistook  the  locality  whence, 
the  call  proceeded.     You  are  to  know,  then,  that  I 

65 


have  removed  from  my  old  apartment,  which  was 
wanted  as  a  parlor  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Devens,  and 
am  now  established  in  a  back  chamber  — a  pleas 
ant  enough  and  comfortable  little  room.  The 
windows  have  a  better  prospect  than  those  of  tin 
former  chamber,  for  1  can  see  the  summit  of  the 
hill  on  which  Gardner  Greene's  estate  was  situa 
ted;  it  is  the  highest  point  of  the  city,  and  the  boys 
at  play  on  it  are  painted  strongly  against  the  sky. 
No  roof  ascends  as  high  as  this — nothing  but  the 
>teeple  of  the  Park-street  church,  which  points 
upward  behind  it.  It  is  singular  that  such  a  hill 
should  have  been  suffered  to  remain  so  long,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  city;  it  affects  me  somewhat  as 
if  a  |x>rtion  of  the  original  forest  were  still  grow 
ing  here.  But  they  are  fast  digging  it  away  now; 
and  it  they  continue  their  labors,  I  shall  soon  be 
able  to  see  the  Park-street  steeple  as  far  downward 
as  the  dial.  Moreover,  in  another  direction,  I 
can  see  the  top  of  the  dome  of  the  State-House; 
and  if  my  Dove  were  .to  take  wing  and  alight 
there  ( the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  a  dove  to 
do) she  might  look  directly  into  my  window,  and 
see  me  writing  this  letter.  I  glance  thither  as  I 
write,  but  can  see  no  Dove  there. 

(Rest  of  letter  missing) 
66 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  October  3d,  1839.    '/J  past  7   P.M. 
Oicncst  Dove; 

Did  you  get  home  safe  and  sound,  and  with  a 
quiet  and  happy  heart?  Providence  acted  lov 
ingly  toward  us  on  Tuesday  evening,  allowing  us 
to  meet  in  the  wide  desert  of  this  world,  and  min 
gle  our  spirits.  It  would  have  seemed  all  a  vision 
then,  now  we  have  the  symbol  of  its  real  it}'. 
You  l(x>ked  like  a  vision,  beautiful  lest  wife,  with 
the  width  of  the  r<x)m  between  us  —  so  spiritual 
that  mv  human  heart  wanted  to  be  assured  that 
you  had  an  earthly  vesture  on.  What  beautiful 
white  doves  those  were,  on  the  border  of  the  vase; 
are  they  of  mine  own  Dove's  kindred?  Do  you 
remember  a  story  of  a  cat  who  was  changed  into  a 
lovely  lady?  —  and  on  her  bridal  night,  a  mouse 
happened  to  run  across  the  floor;  and  forthwith 
the  cat-wife  leaped  out  of  bed  to  catch  it.  What 
if  mine  own  Dove,  in  some  woeful  hour  tor  her 
|>oor  husband,  should  remember  her  dove-instincts, 


and  spread  her  wings  upon  the  western  breeze, 
and  return  to  him  no  more!  Then  would  lie 
wretch  out  his  arms,  poor  windless  biped,  not  hav 
ing  the  wherewithal  to  fly,  and  say  aloud—  "Come 
back,  naughty  Dove!  — whither  are  you  going?- 
come  back,  and  told  your  wings  upon  my 
heart  again,  or  it  will  free'/e!"  And  the  Dove 
would  flutter  her  wings,  and  pause  a  moment  in 
the  air,  meditating  whether  or  no  she  should  come 
back;  for  <n  truth,  as  her  conscience  would  tell 
her,  this  poor  mortal  had  given  her  all  he  had  to 
give —  a  resting-place  on  his  bosom-  a  home  in 
his  deepest  heart.  But  then  she  would  say  to  her 
self —  "my  home  is  in  the  gladsome  air — and  it  I 
need  a  resting-place,  I  can  find  one  on  any  of  the 
sunset-clouds.  He  is  unreasonable  to  call  me 
back:  but  if  lie  can  follow  me.  he  may!"  Then 
would  the  poor  deserted  husband  do  his  best  to  fly 
in  pursuit  of  the  faithless  l)o\v;  and  for  that  pur 
pose  would  ascend  to  the  topmast  of  a  salt-ship, 
and  leap  desperately  into  the  air,  and  fall  down 
head-foremost  upon  the  deck,  and  break  his  neck. 
And  there  should  be  engraven  on  his  tombstone  — 
''Mate  not  thyself  with  a  Dove,  unless  thou  hast 
wings  to  fly." 

Now  will  my  Dove  scold  at  me  for  this  foolish 
flight  of  fancy; — but  the  fact  is,  my.  goose  quill 

68 


flew  away  with  me.  1  do  think  that  I  have 
gotten  a  hunch  of  <jui!ls  from  the  silliest  flock  of 
ijeese  on  earth.  But  the  rest  of  the  letter  shall  he 
very  sensible.  I  saw  Mr.  Howes  in  the  reading- 
room  of  [the  |  Athenaeum,  between  one  and  two 
oYlcx-k  to-day ;  for  I  happened  to  have  had  leisure 
for  an  early  dinner,  and  so  was  spending  a  half- 
hour  turning  over  the  periodicals.  He  spoke  of 
the  long  time  since  your  husband  had  been  at  his 
house;  and  so  I  promised,  on  behalf  of  that  respec 
table  personage,  that  he  would  spend  an  evening 
there  on  his  next  visit  to  Salem.  But  if  I  had 
such  a  sweetest  wife  as  your  husband  lias,  I  doubt 
whether  I  could  find  |  it  \  in  inv  heart  to  keep  the 
engagement.  Now,  good  night,  truest  Dove  in 
the  world.  You  will  never  fly  away  from  me; 
and  it  is  only  the  infinite  impossibility  of  it  that 
enables  me  to  sport  with  the  idea. 

Dearest,  there  was  an  illegible  word  in  your 
yesterday's  note.  I  have  pored  over  it,  but  can 
not  make  it  out.  Your  words  are  too  precious  to 
be.  thus  hidden  under  their  own  vesture.  Go(  d 
night,  wife! 

October  4th.  —  5:  or  thereabout  P.M.  Mine 
own  Dove,  I  dreamed  the  queerest  dreams  last 
night,  about  being  deserted,  and  all  such  nonsense 
—  so  you  see  how  1  was  punished  for  that 

69 


naught)  nonsense  of  the  Faithless  Do\e.  It 
-rrnis  to  me  that,  my  dreams  arc  generally 
about  fantasies,  and  very  seldom  about  what 
I  really  think  and  feel.  You  did  not  ap 
pear  visibly  MI  my  la<t  night's  dreams:  but  they 
were  made  up  of  desolation;  and  it  was  ^ood  to 
awake,  and  know  that  nn  spirit  was  forever  and 
irrevocably  linked  with  the  soul  of  my  truest  and 
renderest  Dove.  You  have  warmed  my  heart, 
mine  own  wife:  and  never  again  tan  I  know  what 
it  is  to  be  cold  and  desolate,  save  in  dreams.  You 
love  me  dearly.— don't  you? 

And  so  mv  Dove  has  been  in  great  peril  since 
we  parted.  No— I  do  not  believe  .-he  was;  it  was 
only  a  shadow  of  peril,  not  a  reality.  My  spirit 
cannot  anticipate  am  harm  to  you,  and  I  trust 
you  to  God  with  securest  faith.  I  know  not  whe 
ther  I  could  endure  actually  to  see  you  in  danger; 
but  when  1  hear  of  any  risk  — as,  for  instance, 
when  your  steed  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  ot  dash 
ing  you  to  pieces  (but  1  do  cjuake  a  little  at  that 
thought)  against  a  tree.  — my  mind  does  not  seize 
upon  it  as  if  it  had  any  substance.  Believe  me, 
dearest,  the  tree  would  have  stood  aside  to  let  you 
pass,  had  there  been  no  other  means  of  salvation. 
Nevertheless,  do  not  drive  your  steed  against  trees 
wilfully.  Mercy  on  us.  what  a  peril  that  was  of 

70 


thr  fat  woman,  when  she  "smashed  herself  clown" 
beside  my  Dove!  P<x>r  Dove!  Did  }  ou  not  feel 
as  if  an  avalanche  had  all  hut  huried  you.  I  can 
see  my  Dove  at  this  moment,  my  slender,  little 
delicatest  white  Dove,  S(]iiee/ed  almost  out  o* 
Christendom  In.  that  ^reat  mass  of  female  flesh  — 
that  ton  of  woman  — that  beef-eater  and  beer-gir/- 
/ler,  whose  immense  cloak,  though  broad  as  a 
ship's  mainsail,  could  not  be  made  to  meet  in 
front  — that  picture  of  an  ale-wite  — that  triple, 
quadruple,  do/en-fold  old  lady. 

Will  not  my  Dove  confess  that  there  is  a  little 
nonsense  in  this  epistle?  But  be  not  wroth  with 
me,  darling  wife;  -my  heart  sports  with  you  be^ 
cause  it  loves  you. 

If  you  happen  to  see  Sophie  Hawthorne,  kiss 
her  cheek  for  my  sake.  I  love  her  full  as  well  as 
I  do  mine  own  wife.  Will  that  satisfy  her,  do  you 
think?  If  not,  she  is  a  very  unreasonable  little 
person. 

It    is   my   chiefest    pleasure    to   write    to   you, 

dearest. 

Yot  R  OWNKST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.   IVabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 

71 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  October  23d,  1839  —  yz  past  7  P.  M. 


Here  sits  your  husband,  comfortably  estab 
lished  tor  the  evening  in  his  own  domicile,  with  a 
cheerful  coal  fire  making  the  r<x>m  a  little  too 
warm.  I  think  I  like  to  be  a  very  little  too  warm. 
And  now  if  my  Dove  were  here,  she  and  that 
naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne,  how  happy  we  all 
three-  two  —  one  —  (how  many  are  there  of  usV) 
—  how  happy  mijj;ht  we  be!  Dearest,  it  will  be  a 
yet  nntasted  bliss,  when,  for  the  first  time,  I  have 
you  in  a  domicile  of  my  own,  whether  it  be  in  a 
hut  or  a  palace,  a  splendid  suit  of  rooms  or  an 
attic  chamber.  Then  1  shall  feel  as  if  1  had 
brought  my  wife  home  at  last.  Shall  Sophie 
Hawthorne  be  there  too?  Yes,  mine  own  Dove, 
whether  you  like  it  or  no.  You  would  wonder, 
were  I  to  tell  you  how  absolutely  necessary  she  has 
contrived  to  render  herself  to  your  husband.  His 
heart  stirs  at  her  very  name  —  even  at  the  thought 

72 


of  her  unspokrn  name.  She  is  his  sunshine  — she 
is  a  happy  smile  on  the  visage  of  his  Destiny,  caus 
ing  that  stern  personage  to  look  as  benign  as 
Heaven  itself.  And  were  Sophie  Hawthorne  a 
tear  instead  of  ;i  smile,  still  your  foolish  husband 
would  hold  out  his  heart  to  receive  that  tear 
within  it.  and  doubtless  would  think  it  more  pre 
cious  than  all  the  smiles  and  sunshine  in  the 
world.  But  Sophie  Hawthorne  has  bewitched 
him-- for  there  is  great  reason  to  suspect  that  she 
deals  in  magic.  Sometimes,  while  your  husband 
conceives  himself  to  be  holding  his  Dove  in  his 
arms,  lo  and  behold!  there  is  the  arch  face  of 
Sophie  Hawthorne  peeping  up  at  him.  Anil 
again,  in  the  very  midst  of  Sophie  Hawthorne's 
airs,  while  he  is  meditating  what  sort  of  chastise 
ment  would  suit  her  misdemeanors,  all  of  a  sudden 
he  becomes  conscious  ol  his  Dove,  with  her  wings 
folded  upon  his  heart  to  keep  it  warm.  Methinks 
a  woman,  or  angel  (  yet  let  it  be  a  woman,  because 
I  deem  a  true  woman  holier  than  an  angel) — me- 
thinks  a  woman,  then,  who  should  combine  the 
characteristics  of  Sophie  Hawthorne  and  my  Dove 
would  be  the  very  perfection  of  her  race.  The 
heart  would  hnd  all  it  yearns  for,  in  such  a 
woman,  and  so  would  the  mind  and  the  fancy;  — 
when  her  husband  was  lightsome  of  spirit,  her 

73 


merry  fantasies  would  dance  hand  in  hand  with 
his:  and  when  he  was  overburthened  with  cares 
he  would  rest  them  all  upon  her  bosom. 

Dearest,  your  husband  was  called  on  by  Mr, 
Hillard  yesterday,  who  said  that  he  intended  soon 
to  take  a  house  in  Boston,  and,  in  that  case,  would 
like  to  take  your  respectable  spouse  to  lodge  and 
breakfast.  What  thinks  my  Dove  of  this?  Your 
husband  is  quite  delighted,  because  he  thinks  mat 
ters  may  be  managed  so  that  once  in  a  while  he 
may  meet  his  own  wife  within  his  own  premises. 
Might  it  not  be  so?  Or  would  his  wife  — most 
preposterous  idea!  — deem  it  a  sin  against  decorum 
to  pay  a  visit  to  her  husband?  Oh,  no,  beloved- 
est.  Your  unreserve,  your  out-gushing  frankness, 
is  one  of  the  loveliest  results  of  your  purity,  and 
mncK-ence,  and  holiness.  And  now  good  night, 
wife  worshipful  and  beloved.  Amid  many  mus 
ings,  nine  o'clock  has  surprised  me  at  this  stage  of 
my  epistle. 

October  24th.  —  }/2  past  6  P.M.  Dearest  Dove, 
your  letter  came  to-day;  and  I  do  think  it 
the  sweetest  of  all  letters— but  you  must  nor 
therefore  suppose  that  you  have  excelled  yourself; 
for  I  think  the  same  of  each  successive  one.  My 
dearest,  what  a  delightful  scene  was  that  between 
Sophie  Hawthorne  and  my  Dove,  when  the  for- 

74 


mer  rebel  led  so  stoutly  apiinst  Destiny,  and  the 
latter,  with  such  meek  mourn  fulness,  submitted. 
Which  do  I  love  the  best,  I  wonder — my  Dove,  or 
my  little  Wild-Flower?  I  love  each  best,  and 
both  equally;  and  my  heart  would  inevitably 
wither  and  dry  up,  and  perish  utterly,  if  either  of 
them  were  torn  away  from  it.  Yet,  truly  I  have 
reason  to  apprehend  more  trouble  with  Sophie 
Hawthorne  than  with  my  Dove. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


75 


TO  MISS  I'EABODY 


Custom  House,  Novr.  14th  [1839] 
My  t/cjrcst  in/i\ 

May  God  sustain  you  uniirr  this  affliction.  I 
have  long  dreaded  it  for  your  sake.  Oh,  let  your 
heart  he  full  of  love  for  me  now,  and  realise  how 
entirely  my  happiness  depends  on  your  well-being. 
You  are  not  your  own,  dearest—  you  must  not  give 
way  to  grief.  Were  it  jxxssible,  I  would  come  to 
see  you  now. 

I  will  write  you  again  on  Saturday. 

YOUR  OWN  HUSBAND. 

My  dearest,  this  note  seems  cold  and  lifeless  to 
me,  as  if  there  were  no  tenderness  nor  comfort  in 
it.  Think  for  yourself  all  that  I  cannot  speak. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Novr.  15th  —  very  late  [1839] 
Dearest  and  best  wife,  I  meant  to  have  written 
you  a  1on<j  letter  this  evening;  hut  an  indispensa 
ble  and  unexpected  engagement  with  Gen.  M'Neil 
has  prevented  me.  Belovedest,  your  yesterday's 
letter  was  received:  and  gave  me  infinite  comfort. 
Yet,  Oh.  be  prepared  for  the  worst—  if  this  may 
be  called  worst,  .which  is  in  truth  best  for  all  — 
and  more  than  all  for  George.  I  cannot  help 
trembling  for  vou,  dearest.  God  bless  you  and 
keep  you. 

I  will  write  a  full  letter  in.  a  day  or  two. 
Meantime,  as  your  husband  is  to  rise  with  peep  of 
day  tomorrow,  he  must  betake  him  to  his  mattress. 

Gcxxl  night.  dearest. 

YOUR  OWNEST. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody. 
Salem. 


77 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 

etlfcx 

Boston,  Nov.  I",   1^39 — b  P.  M.  or  thereabout. 

I  received  no  letter  from  m\  sweetest  wife  yes 
terday:  and  mv  heart  is  not  quite  at  ease  about 
her.  Dearest,  I  pray  to  God  tor  \ou-and  I  pray 
to  yourself,  too;  for  methinks  there  is  within  you 
a  divine  and  miraculous  power  to  counteract  all 
sorts  of  harm.  Oh  be  strong  for  the  sake  of  your 
husband.  Let  "M  your  lo\c  tor  me  be  so  much 
added  to  the  strength  of  your  heart.  Remember 
that  your  anguish  must  likewise  be  mine.  Not 
that  I  would  have  it  otherwise,  mine  own  wife  — 
your  sorrows  shall  be  just  as  precious  a  possession 
to  me  as  your  joys. 

Dearest,  if  von  could  steal  in  upon  your  hus 
band  now,  you  would  see  a  comfortable 'sight.  I 
wish  you  would  make  a  sketch  of  me,  here  in  our 
own  parlour:  and  it  might  be  done  without  trusting 
entirely  to  imagination,  as  you  have  seen  the  nxmi 
and  the  furniture  —  anil  (though  that  would  be 
rhe  least  im|X>rtant  item  of  the  picture)  you  have 

78 


>een  myself.  I  am  writing  now  at  my  new  bu 
reau,  which  stands  between  the  windows;  there  are 
two  lamps  before  me,  which  show  the  polished 
^ladings  of  the  mahogany  panels  to  great  advan 
tage.  A  coal  tire  is  burning  in  the  grate  — not  a 
very  fervid  one,  but  flickering  up  fitfully,  once  in 
,i  while,  so  as  to  remind  me  that  I  am  by  niv  own 
fireside.  I  am  sitting  in  the  cane-bottomed  rock 
ing-chair  ( wherein  my  Dove  once  sate,  but  which 
did  not  meet  her  approbation  )  ;  and  another  hair 
cloth  arm-chair  stands  in  front  of  the  tire.  .Would 
that  I  could  look  round  with  the  assurance  of  see 
ing  mine  own  white  Dove  in  it !  Not  that  I  want 
to  see  her  apparition  — nor  to  have  her  brought 
here  by  miracle,  but  I  want  that  full  assurance  of 
peace  and  joy.  which  I  should  have  it  my  beloved- 
est  wife  were  near  me  in  our  own  parlor. 

Sophie  Hawthorne,  what  a  beautiful  carpet  did 
you  ch<x)se  for  me!  I  admire  it  so  much  that  I 
can  hardly  bear  to  tread  upon  it.  It  is  fit  only  to 
be  knelt  upon:  and  I  do  kneel  on  it  sometimes.  As 
you  saw  it  only  in  narrow  strips,  1  doubt  whether 
even  you  can  imagine  what  an  effect  is  produced  by 
the  tout  ensemble,  spreading  its  fantastic  foliage, 
or  whatever  it  is.  all  over  the  floor.  Many  times 
today  have  I  found  myself  ga/ing  at  it:  and  I  am 
almost  tempted  to  call  in  people  from  the  street  to 

79 


'help  nit1  admire  it  worthily.  But  perhaps  they 
would  not  (juite  sympathize  with  my  raptures.  I 
am  doubtless  somewhat  more  alive  to  the  merits 
of  this  carpet,  because  it  was  your  choice,  and  is 
our  mutual  property.  My  Dove,  there  is  an  ex 
cellent  place  for  a  bust  over  the  bookcase  which 
surmounts  my  bureau:  some  time  or  other,  I  shall 
behold  a  creation  of  your  own  upon  it.  At  pres 
ent,  I  have  no  work  of  art  to  adorn  our  parlour 
with,  except  an  allumette-holder,  on  the  mantel 
piece  ornamented  with  drawings  from  Flaxman. 
It  was  given  me  by  Elizabeth;  and.  considerably 
to  my  vexation,  one  of  the  glasses  has  been  broken, 
during  the  recent  removal  of  my  household  gods 

My  wife,  I  like  sleeping  on  a  mattress  better 
than  on  a  feather-bed.  It  is  a  pity,  however,  that 
a  mattress  looks  so  lean  anil  lank; — it  certainly 
does  not  suggest  such  ideas  of  comfort  and  downy 
repose  as  a  well-rilled  feather-bet!  does;  but  my 
sleep,  I  think,  is  ot  better  quality,  though,  indeed., 
there  was  nothing  to  complain  of  on  that  score, 
even  while  I  rejxised  on  feathers.  You  need  nor 
be  afraid  ot  my  smothering  in  the  little  bed- room ; 
for  I  always  leave  the  door  open,  so  that  1  have 
the  benefit  of  the  iniinuisr  vol'v"1  "f  -rr  '"  tb" 
spacious  parlor. 

Mrs.  Hillard  takes  excellent  care  of  me,  and 
80 


feeds  [me]  with  eggs  and  baked  apples  and  other 
delectable  dainties:  and  altogether  I  am  as  happily 
situated  as  a  man  can  be,  whose  heart  is  wedded, 
while  external ly  he  is  still  a  bachelor. 

My  wife,  would  you  rather  that  I  should  conn 
home  next  Saturday  and  stay  till  Monday,  or  that 
I  should  come  to  Thanksgiving  and  stay  the  rest 
of  the  week?  Both  I  cannot  do;  but  I  will  try  to 
do  the  latter,  if  you  wish  it:  and  I  think  I  shall 
finish  the  salt-ship  which  I  am  now  engaged  upon, 
about  Thanksgiving  time  — unless  foul  weather  in 
tervene  to  retard  our  progress.  Mow  delightfully 
long  the  evenings  are  now  !  1  do  not  get  intoler 
ably  tired  any  longer:  and  my  thoughts  sometimes 
wander  back  to  literature  and  I  have  momentary 
impulses  to  write  stories.  But  this  will  not  be,  at 
present.  The  utmost  that  I  can  hope  to  do,  will 
be  to  portray  some  of  the  characteristics  of  the 
life  which  I  am  now  living,  and  of  the  people  with 
whom  I  am  brought  into  contact,  for  future  use. 
I  doubt  whether  I  shall  write  any  more  for  the 
public,  till  I  can  have  a  daily  or  nightly  opportu 
nity  of  submitting  my  productions  to  the  criticism 
of  Sophie  Hawthorne.  I  have  a  high  opinion  of 
that  young  lady's  critical  acumen,  but  a  great 
dread  of  her  severity  — which,  however,  the  Dove 
will  not  fail  to  temper  with  her  sweetness. 

8l 


Dearest,  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  this  letter: 
and  perhaps  it  may  come  to  you  at  a  time  when 
your  heart  needs  the  strongest,  and  tenderest,  and 
most  comfortable  words  that  mine  can  speak  to  it. 
Yet  what  could  I  say,  but  to  assure  you  that  I  love 
you,  and  partake  whatever  of  g<x)d  or  evil  God 
sends  you  — or  rather,  partake  whatever  gcxni  God 
sends  you,  whether  it  come  in  festal  garments  or 
mourning  ones;  for  still  it  is  good,  whether  ar- 

raved    in   sable,   or   flower-crowned,     (rod    bless 

*  « 

you,  belovedest, 

YOUR  OWNKST  Hi' SB  AND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  X.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


82 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Rostov,  Novr.  igrh,  6  P.M.,  [1839] 
Bch-crJcsf  ffV/r, 

My  heart  bids  me  to  send  you  a  greeting;  and 
therefore  I  do  it.  although  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  had 
many  thoughts  and  words  ar  command  tonight, 
bur  only  f  re]  in  ITS  and  sympathies,  which  must  find 
their  way  to  you  as  well  as  rhey  can.  Dearest,  I. 
cannot  brar  to  think  of  you  sitting  all  day  long  in 
that  chamber,  and  not  a  soul  to  commune  with 
you.  But  I  endeavor,  and  will  still  endeavor,  to 
send  my  soul  thither,  from  out  of  the  toil  and  te 
dium  of  mv  daily  life:  so  think,  beloved,  when 
ever  solitude  and  sad  thoughts  become  intolerable, 
that,  just  at  that  moment  I  am  near  you.  and  try 
ing  to  comfort  you  and  make  you  sensible  of  my 
presence. 

Beloved,  it  occurs  to  me.  that  my  earnest  en 
treaties  to  you  to  be  calm  and  strong  may  produce 
an  effect  not  altogether  good.  The  behests  of 
Nature  may  perhaps  differ  from  mine,  and  'be 
wiser.  If  she  bids  you  shed  tears,  methinks  it  will 

83 


br  best  to  let  them  flow,  arid  then  your  grief  will 
melt  quietly  forth,  instead  of  being  pent  up  till  it 
breaks  out  in  a  torrent.  But  I  cannot  speak  my 
counsel  to  you,  dearest,  so  decidedly  as  it  I  were 
with  you:  for  then  my  heart  would  know  all  the 
state  of  yours,  and  what  it  needed.  But  love  me 
infinitely,  my  wife,  and  rest  your  heart  with  all  its 
heaviness  oil  mine.  I  know  not  what  else  to  say: 
-but  even  that  is  saying  something — is  it  not, 
dearest  ? 

I  rather  think,  beloved,  that  I  shall  come  home 
on  Sat\irda\  night,  and  take  my  chance  of  being 
able  to  come  again  on  Thanksgiving-day,  But 
then  I  shall  not  be  able  to  remain  the  rest  of  the 
week.  That  you  want  me  I  know ;  and,  dearest, 
my  head  and  heart  .ire  weary  with  absence  from 
you:  so  that  it  will  be  best  to  snatch  the  first 
chance  that  offers.  Soon,  mine  own  wife,  I  shall 
be  able  to  spend  much  more  time  with  you. 

YOUR  LOMNGKST  HUSBAND. 

Does  Sophie  Hawthorne  keep  up  my  Dove's 
spirits? 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 

84 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Hoston,  Novr.  20th,  |i  past  8  P.M.  ,[1839] 
Dearest,  you  know  not  how  your  blessed  letter 
strengthens  my  heart  on  your  account;  tor  I  know 
by  it  that  God  anil  the  angels  are  supporting  you. 
And,  mine  own  wife,  though  I  thought  that  I  rev 
erenced  you  infinitely  before,  yet  never  was  so 
much  of  that  feeling  mingled  with  my  love,  as 
now.  You  are  yourself  one  of  the  angels  who 
minister  to  your  departing  brother  —  the  more  an 
angel,  because  you  triumph  over  earthly  weakness 
to  perform  those  oil  ices  of  affection.  I  feel,  now, 
with  what  confidence  I  can  rest  upon  you  in  all 
my  sorrows  and  troubles-  as  confident  of  your 
strength  as  of  -your  love.  Dearest,  there  is  noth 
ing  in  me  worthy  of  you.  My  heart  is  weak  in 
comparison  with  yours.  Its  strength,  it  is  true, 
has  never  been  tried;  for  I  have  never  been  called 
to  minister  at  the  dying  bed  of  a  dear  friend;  but 
I  have  often  thought,  that,  in  such  a  scene,  I 
should  need  support  from  the  dying,  instead  of  be 
ing  able  to  give  it.  I  bless  God  that  He  has  made 

85 


Death  so  beautiful  us  he  appears  in  the  scene 
which  >oti  describe—  that  He  has  caused  the  light 
from  the  other  side  to  shine  over  and  across  the 
ehasm  of  the  grave. 

Mv  wife,  my  spirit  has  never  yearned  tor  com 
munion  with  \  ou  M)  much  as  ir  does  now.  I  long 
to  hold  you  on  my  bosom  —  to  hold  you  there  si 
lently—for  I  have  no  words  to  write  mv  sympa 
thy,  and  should  have  none  to  speak  them.  Some 
times,  even  after  all  I  have  now  learned  of  your 
divine  fortitude,  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  dread  to  meet 
you,  lest  I  should  find  you  finite  worn  down  by 
this  great  trial.  But,  dearest,  i  will  make  up  my 
uind  to  see  you  pale,  and  thinner  than  YOU  were. 
Only  do  not  be  sick  —  do  not  give  me  too  much  ro 
bear. 

Novr.  2 1st,  '/»  past  s  P.M.  Mine  own  Dove, 
your  fourth  letter  came  today,  and  all  the  rest 
were  duly  received,  and  performed  their  heaven- 
appointed  mission  to  my  soul.  The  last  has  left 
,i  very  cheering  influence  on  my  spirit.  Dearest, 
I  love  that  naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne  with  an 
unspeakable  affection,  and  bless  God  for  her  every 
minute;  for  what  mv  Dove  could  do  without  her, 
i Kisses  my  comprehension.  And.  mine  own  wife, 
(  have  not  been  born  in  vain,  but  to  an  end  worth 
living  tor.  since  you  are  able  to  rest  your  heart  on 

86 


me,  and  are  thereby  sustained  in  this  sorrow,  and 
enabled  to  be  a  help  and  comfort  to  your  mother, 
and  a  ministering  an^el  to  George.  Give  my  love 
to  George.  I  regret  that  we  have  known  each 
other  so  little  in  life:  but  there  will  be  time 
enough  hereafter-- in  that  pleasant  region  "on  the 
other  side." 

Beloved,  I  shall  come  on  Saturday,  but  proba 
bly  not  till  the  five  o'clock  train,  unless  it  should 
storm;  so  YOU  must  not  expect  me  till  seven  or 
thereabouts.  1  never  did  yearn  for  you  so  much 
as  now.  There  is  a  feeling  in  me  as  it  a  ^reat 
while  had  passed  since  we  met.  Is  it  so"  with 
yon  V 

The  days  are  cold  now,  the  air  eager  and  nip 
ping —  yet  it  suits  mv  health  ama/ingly.  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  run  a  hundred  miles  at  a  stretch,  and 
jump  over  all  the  houses  that  happen  to  be  in  my 
way.  Belovedest,  1  must  bring  this  letter  to  a 
close  now,  for  several  reasons-  partly  that  I  may 
earn  it  to  the  Post-Office  before  it  closes;  for  I 
hate  to  make  your  father  pay  the  postage  of  my 
wife's  letters.  Also,  I  have  another  short  letter 
of  business  to  write;— and,  moreover,  1  must  go 
forth  into  the  wide  world  to  seek  my  supj>er.  This 
life  of  mine  is  the  }>erfection  of  a  bachelor-life— 
so  perfectly  untrammelled  as  it  is.  Do  you  not 


fear,  my  wife,  to  trust  me  to  live  in  such  a  wa> 
an}'  longer? 

Belovedest,  still  keep  up  your  heart  for  your 
husband's  sake.  I  pray  to  (rod  tor  ijuiet  sleeps 
for  my  Dove,  and  cheerful  awakin^s —  yes,  cheer 
ful  ;  tor  Death  moves  with  a  sweet  aspect  into 
your  household;  and  your  brother  passes  away 
with  him  as  with  a  friend.  And  now  farewell, 
dearest  of  wives.  You  are  the  hope  and  joy  of 
your  husband's  heart.  Never,  never  forget  how 
very  precious  you  are  to  him.  God  bless  you, 

dearest. 

YOUR  OWNKST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Novr.  25th,  1839  —  6  P.  M. 
Be/  freed  cs/  /IV/V, 

This  very  clay  T  have  held  YOU  in  my  arms:  and 
yet,  now  that  I  find  myself  again  in  my  solitary 
room,  it  seems  as  if  a  long  while  had  already 
passed  —  long  enough,  as  I  tru^t  my  Dove  will 
think,  to  excuse  my  troubling  her  with  an  epistle. 
I  came  off  in  the  two  o'clock  cars,  through  such  a 
pouring  rain,  th.it  doubtless  Sophie  Hawthorne 
set  it  down  for  certain  that  1  should  pass  the  day 
and  night  in  Salem.  And  perhaps  she  and  the 
Dove  are  now  watching  with  beating  heart,  to 
hear  your  husband  lift  the  d<x)r-latch.  Alas,  that 
they  must  be  disappointed!  Dearest,  I  feel  that 
I  ought  to  be  with  you  now;  for  it  grieves  me  to 
imagine  you  all  alone  in  that  chamber,  where  you 
"sit  and  it't///"  —  as  you  said  to  me  this  morning. 
This,  I  trust,  is  the  last  of  your  sorrow,  mine  own 
wife;  in  which  you  will  not  have  all  the  aid  that 

89 


your  husband's  bosom,  and  the  protoundest  sym 
pathy  that  exists  within  it,  can  impart. 

I  found  your  letter  in  the  Measurer's  Desk;  and 
though  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  there, 
and  had  thought  of  it  repeatedly,  vet  it  struck  me 
with  a  sense  of  unexpectedness  when  I  saw  it.  I 
put  it  in  nn  breast-pocket,  and  did  not  open  it  till 
I  found  myself  comfortably  settled  for  the  even 
ing;  for  I  took  my  supper  of  oysters  on  my  way  to 
my  r<x)in,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  busy- 
world  till  sunrise  tomorrow.  Oh,  mine  own 
beloved,  it  seems  to  me  the  only  thing  worth  living 
for  that  1  have  ever  done,  or  been  instrumental  in. 
that  God  has  made  me  the  means  of  saving  you 
from  the  heaviest  anguish  of  your  brother's  loss. 
Ever,  ever,  dearest  wife,  keep  my  image,  or  rather 
my  reality,  between  yourself  and  pain  of  every 
kind.  Let  me  clothe  you  in  my  love  as  in  an  ar 
mour  of  proof-  let  me  wrap  my  spirit  round 
about  your  own.  so  that  no  earthly  calamity  may 
come  in  immediate  contact  with  it,  but  be  felt,  if 
at  all,  through  a  softening  medium.  And  it  is  a 
blessed  privilege,  and  even  a  happy  one.  to  give 
such  sympathy  as  my  Dove  requires — happy  to 
give— and,  dearest,  is  it  not  also  happiness  to  re 
ceive  it?  Our  happiness  consists  in  our  sense  of 
the  union  of  our  hearts— and  has  not  that  union 

90 


been  far  more  deeply  felt  within  us  now,  than  if 
all  our  ties  were  those  of  joy  and  gladness V  Thiii- 
may  every  sorrow  leave  us  happier  than  it  found 
us,  hy  causing  our  hearts  to  embrace  more  closely 
in  the  mutual  effort  to  sustain  it. 

Dearest,  I  pray  (rod  that  your  strength  may  not 
fail  you  at  the  close  of  this  scene.  My  heart  is 
not  (juite  at  rest  about  you.  It  seems  to  me,  on 
looking  back,  that  there  wras  a  vague  inquietude 
within  me  all  through  this  last  visit;  and  this  it 
was,  perhaps,  that  made  me  seem  more  sportive 
than  usual. 

Did  I  tell  my  careful  lest  little  wife  that  I  had 
bought  me  a  fur  cap,  wherewith  my  ears  may  bid 
defiance  to  the  wintry  blast  — a  poor  image,  by  the 
way.  to  talk  of  cjrs  bidding  defiance.  The  nose 
might  do  it.  because  it  is  capable  of  emitting 
sounds  like  a  trumpet  — indeed,  Sophie  Haw 
thorne's  nose  bids  defiance  without  any  sound. 
But  what  nonsense  this  is.  Also  (I  have  now 
been  a  married  man  long  enough  to  feel  these  de 
tails  perfectly  natural,  in  writing  to  my  wife) 
your  husband,  having  a  particular  dislike  to  flan 
nel,  is  resolved,  every  cold  morning,  to  put  on  two 
shirts,  and  has  already  done  so  on  one  occasion, 
wonderful lv  to  his  comfort.  Perhaps— but  this 
I  leave  to  Sophie  Hawthorne's  judgment — it 

9» 


might  be  well  to  add  a  daily  shirt  to  my  apparel 
as  the  winter  advances,  ;md  to  take  them  off  again, 
one  b\  one.  with  the  approach  of  spring.  Dear 
me.  what  a  puffed-out  heap  of  cotton-bagging 
would  your  husband  be,  by  the  middle  of  Janu 
ary  !  His  Dove  would  strive  in  vain  to  fold  her 
wings  around  him. 

My  beloved,  this  is  Thanksgiving  week.  Do 
you  remember  how  we  were  emplovcd.  or  what 
our  state  of  feeling  was.  at  this  rime  la.>t  year?  I 
have  forgotten  how  far  we  had  advanced  into  each 
other's  hearts  —  or  rather,  how  conscious  we  had 
become  that  we  were  mutually  within  one  another 
-but  I  am  sure  we  were  already  dearest 
friends.  But  now  our  eye*  are  opened.  Now  we 
know  that  we  have  found  all  in  each  other — all 
that  life  has  to  give  —  nnd  a  foretaste  of  eternity. 
At  every  former  Thanksgiving-day  I  have  been  so 
ungrateful  to  Heaven  as  to  feel  that  something 
.  was  wanting,  and  that  my  life  so  far  had  been 
abortive;  and  therefore,  I  fear,  there  has  often 
been  repining  instead  of  thankfulness  in  my  heart. 
Now  I  can  thank  God  that  he  has  given  me  my 
Dove,  and  all  the  world  in  her.  I  wish,  dearest, 
that  we  could  eat  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  to 
gether;  and  were  it  nothing  but  your  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk,  we  would  both  of  us  be  therewith 

92 


content.  But  T  must  sit  at  our  mother's  table. 
One  of  these  clays,  sweetest  wife,  we  will  invite 
her  to  our  own. 

Will  my  Dove  expect  a  letter  from  me  so  soon? 
I  have  written  this  evening,  because  I  expect  to 
be  engaged  tomorrow  —moreover,  my  heart  bade 
me  write.  God  bless  and  keep  you,  dearest. 

YOUR  OWNEST  DKODATUS. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  X.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


93 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Novr.  29th,  1839—6  or  7  P.  M. 
lilesscdcst  :cv'/V, 

Does  our  head  ache  this  evening?  —  and  has  it 
ached  all  or  any  of  the  time  to-day  ?  I  wish  I 
knew,  dearest,  tor  it  seems  almost  too  great  a  bless 
ing  to  expect,  that  mv  Dove  should  come  quite 
sate  through  the  trial  which  she  has  encountered. 
Do,  mine  own  wife,  resume  all  your  usual  occupa 
tions  as  soon  as  possible  —  your  sculpture,  your 
painting,  your  music  (  what  a  company  of  sister- 
arts  is  combined  in  the  little  person  of  ijiy  Dove!  ) 
-and  above  all,,  your  riding  and  walking.  Write 
often  to  your  husband,  and  let  your  letters  gush 
from  a  cheerful  heart;  so  shall  they  refresh  and 
gladden  me,  like  draughts  from  a  sparkling  foun 
tain,  which  leaps  from  some  spot  of  earth  where  no 
grave  has  ever  been  dug.  Dearest,  for  some  little 
time  to  come,  1  prav  you  not  to  muse  too  much 
u[X)n  your  brother,  even  though  such  musings 

94 


should  he  untinged  with  gloom,  and  should  appear 
to  make  you  happier.  In  the. eternity  where  hi 
now  dwells,  it  has  doubtless  become  of  no  impor 
tance  to  himself  whether  he  died  yesterday,  or  a 
thousand  years  ago:  he  is  already  at  home  in  the 
celestial  cit)  —more  at  home  than  ever  he  was  in 
his  mother's  house.  Then,  my  beloved,  let  us 
leave  him  there  for  the  present;  and  if  the  sha 
llows  and  images  of  this  fleeting  time  should  inter 
pose  between  us  and  him,  let  us  not  seek  to  drive 
them  away,  for  they  are  sent  of  Crod.  By  and 
bye,  it  will  be  good  and  profitable  to  commune 
with  your  brother's  spirit:  but  so  soon  after  his 
release  from  mortal  infirmity,  it  seems  even  un 
generous  towards  himself \  to  call  him  back  by 
yearnings  of  the  heart  and  too  vivid  picturing  of 
what  he  was. 

Little  Dove,  why  did  you  shed  tears  the  other 
day,  when  you  supposed  that  your  husband 
thought  you  to  blame  for  regretting  the  irrevoca 
ble  past?  Dearest,  I  never  think  you  to  blame: 
for  you  positively  have  no  faults.  Not  that  you 
always  act  wiselv,  or  judge  wisely,  or  feel  pre 
cisely  what  it  would  be  wise  to  feel,  in  relation  to 
this  present  world  and  state  of  being:  but  it  is  be 
cause  you  are  too  delicately  and  exquisitely 
wrought  in  heart,  mind,  and  frame,  to  dwell  in 

95 


such  a  world—  because,  in  short,  you  are  fitter  to 
be  in  Paradise  than  here.  You  needed,  therefore, 
an  interpreter  between  the  world  and  yourself  — 
one  who  should  sometimes  set  you  right,  not  in  the 
abstract  (  for  there  you  are  never  wrong)  but  rela 
tively  to  human  and  earthly  matters;  —  and  such 
an  interpreter  is  your  husband,  who  can  sympa 
thise,  though  inadequate!},  with  his  wife's  heav 
enly  nature,  and  has  likewise  a  portion  of  shrewd 
earthly  sense,  enough  to  guide  us  both  through  the 
labyrinths  of  time.  Now,  dearest,  when  I  criti 
cise  any  act,  word,  thought,  or  feeling  of  yours, 
you  must  not  understand  it  as  a  repr<x>f,  or  as  im 
puting  anything  wrong,  wherewith  you  are  to  bur 
then  your  conscience.  Were  an  angel,  however 
holy  and  wise,  to  come  and  dwell  with  mortals,  he 
would  need  the  guidance  and  instruction  of  some 
mortal;  and  so  will  you.  my  Dove,  need  mine  — 
and  precisely  the  same  sort  of  guidance  that  the 
angel  would.  Then  do  not  grieve,  nor  grieve 
your  husband's  spirit,  when  he  essays  to  do  his  of 
fice;  but  remember  that  he  does  it  reverently,  and 
in  the  devout  belief  that  you  are,  in  immortal 
reality,  both  wiser  and  better  than  himself,  though 
sometimes  he  may  chance  to  interpret  the  flitting 
shadows  around  us  more  accurately  than  you. 
Hear  what  I  say,  dearest,  in  a  cheerful  spirit,  and 

06 


act  upon  it  with  cheerful  strength.  And  do  not 
give  an  undue  weight  to  my  judgment,  nor  im- 
igine  that  there  is  no  appeal  from  it,  and  that  it 
decrees  are  not  to  be  questioned.  Kather,  makt 
it  a  rule  always  to  question  them  and  he  satisfied 
of  their  correctness:  — and  so  shall  my  Dove  he  im 
proved  and  perfected  in  the  gift  of  a  human  under 
standing,  till  she  become  even  carthly-wifdicr 
than  her  sagacious  husband.  Undine's  husband 
gave  her  an  immortal  soul;  my  beloved  wife  must 
be  content  with  an  humbler  gift  from  me,  being 
already  provided  with  as  high  and  pure  a  soul  as 
ever  was  created. 

(rod  bless  you,  belovedest.  I  bestow  three 
kisses  on  the  air— they  are  intended  for  your  eye 
lids  and  brow,  to  drive  a  way  the  head-ache. 


YOUR  OWNEST. 


Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


97 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Custom-  House,  Novr.  3Oth   [1839] 
"tcv/  1)  we* 

You  will  have  received  my  letter,  clearest,  ere 
now,  and  1  trust  that  it  will  have  conveyed  the 
peace  of  my  own  heart  into  yours:  tor  my  heart  is 
t(K>  calm  and  peaceful  in  the  sense  of  our  mutual 
love,  to  be  disturbed  even  hv  mv  sweetest  wife's 
disquietude.  Belovedest  and  hlessedest,  I  cannot 
feel  anything  but  comfort  in  you.  Hest  quietly 
on  my  deep,  deep,  deepest  affection.  You  deserve 
it  all,  and  infinitely  more  than  all.  were  it  only  tor 
the  happiness  you  give  me.  I  apprehended  that 
this  cup  could  not  pass  from  vou.  without  your 
tasting  bitterness  among  its  dregs.  You  have 
been  t<x>  calm,  my  beloved  —  you  have  exhausted 
your  strength.  Let  your  soul  lean  u|>on  my  love, 
till  we  meet  again  —  then  all  your  troubles  shall  be 

hushed. 

Your  ownest,  happiest, 

DEODATUS. 

98 


How  does  Sophie  Hawthorne  do*     Expect  a 
letter  on  Tuesday.     God  bless  my  dearest. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston',  December  Ist,  1839  —  6  or  7  P.M. 
My  Dearest, 

The  day  must  not  pass  without  my  speaking  a 
word  or  two  to  my  belovcdest  wife,  of  whom  I 
have  thought,  with  tender  anxieties  mingled  with 
comfortable  hopes,  all  day  long.  Dearest,  is  your 
heart  at  peace  now?  (?od  grant  it  —  and  I  have 
faith  that  He  will  communicate  the  peace  of  my 
heart  to  yours.  Mine  own  wife,  always  when 
there  is  trouble  within  you,  let  your  husband  know 
of  it.  Strive  to  fling  your  burthen  upon  me;  for 
there  is  strength  enough  in  me  to  bear  it  all,  and 
love  enough  to  make  me  happy  in  bearing  it.  I 
will  not  give  up  any  of  my  conjugal  rights  —  and 
least  of  all  this  most  precious  right  of  ministering 
to  you  in  all  sorrow.  My  bosom  was  made, 
among  other  purposes,  for  mine  ownest  wife  to 
shed  tears  upon.  This  I  have  known,  ever  since 
we  were  married  —  and  I  had  yearnings  to  be  your 
support  and  comforter,  even  before  I  knew  that 

100 


God  was  uniting  our  spirits  in  immortal  wedlock. 
I  used  to  think  that  it  would  be  happiness  enough, 
food  enough  tor  my  heart,  it  I  could  be  the  lite- 
long,  familiar  friend  of  your  family,  and  be  al 
lowed  to  see  yourself  even  evening,  and  to  watch 
around  you  to  keep  harm  away  — though  you 
might  never  know  what  an  interest  I  felt  in  you. 
And  how  infinitely  more  than  this  has  been 
granted  me!  Oh,  never  dream,  blessedest  wife, 
that  you  can  be  other  than  a  comfort  to  your  hus 
band —  or  that  he  can  be  disappointed  in  you. 
Mine  own  Dove,  I  hardly  know  how  it  is,  but 
nothing  that  you  do  or  say  ever  surprises  or  disap 
points  me;  it  must  be  that  my  spirit  is  so  thor 
oughly  and  intimately  conscious  of  you,  that  there 
exists  latent  within  me  a  prophetic  knowledge  of 
all  your  vicissitudes  of  joy  or  sorrow;  so  that, 
though  I  cannot  foretell  them  before-hand,  yet  I 
recognize  them  when  thev  come.  Nothing  dis 
turbs  the  preconceived  idea  of  you  in  my  mind. 
Whether  in  bliss  or  agonv,  still  you  are  mine  own 
Dove  —  still  my  blessing — still  my  peace.  Be- 
lovedest,  since  the  foregoing  sentence,  I  have  been 
interrupted;  so  I  will  leave  the  rest  of  the  sheet 
till  tomorrow  evening.  Good  night,  and  in  writ 
ing  these  words  my  soul  has  flown  through  the  air 
to  give  you  a  fondest  kiss.  Did  you  not  feel  it"? 

101 


Deer.  2ci. — Your  letter  came  to  me  at  the  Cus- 
tom-House,  very  dearest,  at  about  eleven  oYlwk: 
ind  I  opened  it  with  an  assured  hope  of  rinding 
good  news  about  my  Dove;  for  I  had  trusted  very 
much  in  Sophie  Hawthorne's  assistance.  Well,  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  never  find  in  my  heart  to  call 
that  excellent  little  person  "Naughty"  again  —no; 
and  I  have  even  serious  thoughts  of  giving  up  all 
further  designs  upon  her  nose,  since  she  hates  so 
much  to  have  it  kissed.  Yet  the  poor  little  nose! 
-would  it  not  be  quite  depressed  ( 1  do  not  mean 
flattened)  by  my  neglect,  after  becoming  accus 
tomed  to  such  marked  attention?  And  besides,  I 
have  a  particular  affection  for  that  nose,  insomuch 
that  I  intend,  one  of  these  d,'\  s,  to  oHVr  it  an  obla 
tion  of  rich  and  delicate  odours.  Rut1  I  suppose 
Sophie  Hawthorne  would  apply  her  handkerchief, 
so  that  the  poor  nose  should  reap  no  pleasure  nor 
profit  from  my  incense.  Naughty  Sophie  Haw 
thorne!  There  — I  have  called  her  "naughty"  al 
ready—and  on  a  mere  supposition,  too. 

Half  a  page  of  nonsense  about  Sophie  Haw 
thorne's  nose!  And  now  have  I  anything  to  say 
to  my  little  Dove?  Yes— a  reproof.  My  Dove 
is  to  understand,  that  she. entirely  exceeds  her  ju 
risdiction,  in  presuming  to  sit  in  judgment  upon 
herself,  and  pass  such-  severe  censure  as  she  did 

102 


uj>on  her  Friday's  letter— or  indeed  any  censurt 
at  all.  It  was  her  bounden  duty  to  write  that  let 
ter:  for  it  was  the  rry  of  her  heart,  which  ought 
and  must  have  reached  her  husband's  ears,  wher 
ever  in  the  world  he -might  be.  And  yet  you  call 
it  wicked.  V.  as  it  Sophie  Hawthorne  or  the  Dove 
that  called  it  so?  X;mghtv  Sophie  Hawthorne 
-naughty  Dove— for  1  believe  they  are  both 
partakers  of  this  naughtiness. 

Dearest.  I  have  never  had  the  good  luck  to  pro- 
tit  much,  or  indeed  any,  by  attending  lectures;  so 
that  I  think  the  ticket  had  better  be  bestowed  on 
>omebody  who  can  listen  to  Mr.  Emerson  more 
worthily.  My  evenings  are  very  precious  to  me; 
;md  some  of  them  are  unavoidably  thrown  away 
in  paying  or  receiving  visits,  or  in  writing  letters 
of  business;  and  therefore  I  pri'/e  the  rest  as  it  the 
.-.inds  of  the  hour-glass  were  gold  or  diamond  dust. 
I  have  no  othn  time  to  sit  in  my  parlor  (let  me 
call  it  ours)  and  be  happy  by  our  own  fireside  — 
happv  in  reveries  about  a  certain  little  wife  of 
mine,  who  would  fain  have  me  spend  my  evenings 
in  hearing  lectures,  lest  I  should  incommode  her 
with  too  frequent  epistles. 

Good  bye,  dearest.  I  suppose  I  have  left  a 
do/en  questions  in  your  letter  unanswered;  but 
\ou  shall  ask  them  again  when  we  meet.  Do  not 

103 


you  lon£  to  sec  me?  Merc)  on  us,  — what  a  pen  ! 
It  looks  as  if  I  had  laid  a  strong  emphasis  on  that 
sentence.  God  bless  my  Dove,  and  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  too.-  So  prays  their  ownest  husband. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


104 


r 

TO  MISS  I'EABODY 


Boston,  Deer.  5^,  1839  —  5  P.M. 
Dearest  ttv'/V, 

I  do  wish  that  you  would  evince  the  power  of 

your  spirit   over   its  outward   manifestations,    in 

some  other  w;n   than  by  raising  an  inflammation 

over  your  rye.     Do,  belovedest,  work  another  mir 

acle   forthwith,  .and  cause  this  mountain  —  for   I 

fanc\   it  as  of  really  mountainous  hulk   -cause  it 

to  he  cast  into  the  sea,  or  anywhere  else;  so  that 

both  eyes  may  jjjreet  your  husband,  when  he  comes 

home.      Otherwise,     I    know    not    but    my    eyes 

will   have  an   inflammation   tw;  —  they  certainly 

smarted  in  a  very  unwonted  manner,  last  evening. 

"The  naughty  swelling!"  as  my  Dove  (or  Sophie 

Hawthorne)  said  of  the  swollen  cheek  that  afflic 

ted  me  last  summer.     Will  kisses  have  any  effi 

cacy?     No;   I   am   afraid  not,   for   if  they  were 

medicinal,  my  Dove's  eyelids  have  been  so  imbued 

with   them   that  no  ill   would  have  come   there. 

Nevertheless,  though  not  a  preventive,  a  kiss  may 

105 


chance  to  he  a  remedy.     Can  Sophie  Hawthorne 
be  prevailed  upon  to  let  me  try  it? 

I  went  to  see  my  wife's  (  and  of  course  my  own ) 
sister  Mary,  on  Tuesday  evening.  She  appeared 
very  well;  and  we  had  a  great  deal  of  good  talk, 
wherein  my  Dove  was  not  utterly  forgotten  — 
(now  will  Sophie  Hawthorne,  thinking  (he  Dov< 
>lighted,  pout  her  lip  at  that  expression ) —well 
then,  nn  Dove  was  directly  or  indirectly  con 
cerned  in  all  my  thoughts,  and  most  of  my -words. 
Mrs.  Park  was  not  there,  being  gone.  I  believe,  to 
some  lecture.  Man  and  your  husband  talked 
with  the  utmost  hopefulness  and  faith  of  my 
Dove's  future  health  and  well-being.  Dearest, 
you  Lire  well  (all  but  the  naughty  swelling)  and 
you  always  will  be  well.  I  love  Mary  because 
she  loves  you  so  much;  — our  affections  meet  in 
you,  and  so  we  become  kindred.  But  everybody 
loves  my  Dove  — everybody  that  knows  her—and 
those  that  know  her  not  love  her  also,  though  un 
consciously,  whenever  the}'  image  to  themselves 
something  sweeter,  and  tenderer,  and  nobler,  than 
they  can  meet  with  on  earth.  It  is  the  likeness  of 
my  Dove  that  has  haunted  the  dreams  of  poets, 
ever  since  the  world  began.  Happy  me,  to  whom 
that  dream  has  become  the  reality  of  all  realitie- 
—  whose  bosom  has  been  warmed,  and  is  forever 

106 


warmed,  with  the  close  embrace  of  her  who  i;u> 
flitted  shadow  like  away  from  all  other  mortals! 
Dearest,  I  wish  your  husband  had  the  gift  of 
making  rhymes;  for  methinks  there  is  poetry  in  his 
head  and  heart,  since  he  has  been  in  love  with  you. 
You  are  a  Poem,  my  Dove.  Of  what  sort,  then? 
Epic?— Mercy  on  me,  — no!  A  sonnet? — no; 
for  that  is  too  labored  and  artificial.  My  Dove 
is  a  sort  of  sweet,  simple,  gay,  pathetic  ballad, 
which  Nature  is  singing,  sometimes  with  tears, 
sometimes  with  smiles,  and  sometimes  with  inter 
mingled  smiles  and  tears. 

I  was  invited  to  dine  at  Mr.  Bancroft's  yester 
day  with  Miss  Margaret  Fuller;  but  Providence 
had  given  me  some  business  to  do:  tor  which  I  was 
very  thankful.  When  my  Dove  and  Sophie 
Hawthorne  can  go  with  me  I  shall  not  be  afraid 
to  accept  invitations  to  meet  literary  lions  and 
lionesses,  because  then  I  shall  put  the  above-said 
redoubtable  little  personage  in  the  front  of  the 
battle.  What  do  you  think.  Dearest,  of  the  ex 
pediency  of  my  making  a  caucus  speech?  A 
great  many  jx*ople  are  very  desirous  of  listening  to 
your  husband's  eloquence ;  and  that  is  considered 
the  best  method  of  making  my  debut.  Now,  pro 
bably,  will  Sophie  Hawthorne  utterly  refuse  to  be 
kissed,  unless  I  give  up  all  notion  of  speechifying 

107 


at  a  caucus.  Silly  little  Sophie  !—  I  would  not  do 
it,  even  if  thou  thyself  besought  it  of  me. 

Belovedest.  I  wish,  before  declining  your  ticket 
to  Mr.  Emerson's  lectures,  that  I  had  asked  whe 
ther  you  wished  me  to  attend  them;  for  if  you  do, 
I  should  have  more  pleasure  in  going,  than  if  the 
wish  were  originally  my  own. 

Dearest  wife,  nobody  can  come  within  the  cir 
cle  of  my  loneliness,  save  you;  —  you  are  my  only 
companion  in  the  world:  —  at  least,  when  I  com 
pare  other  intercourse  with  our  intimate  commun 
ion,  it  seems  as  |  if  |  other  people  were  the  world's 
width  asunder.  And  yet  I  love  all  the  world  bet 
ter  for  my  Dove's  sake. 

Good     bye,     belovedest.      Drive     away     that 

''naughty  swelling." 

YOUR  OWNEST  HUSBAND. 

Do  not  expect  me  till  seven  o'clock  on  Saturday 
-as  I  shall  not  leave  Boston  till  sunset. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


108 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Deer,  n^,  1839  —  7  P.M. 
Bc/avcdesti 

I  am  afraid  you  will  expect  a  letter  tomorrow 
-afraid,  hecau>e  1  feel  very  SUIT  that  I  shall  not 
he  ahle  to  fill  this  sheet  tonight.  I  am  well,  and 
happy,  and  I  love  you  dearly,  sweetest  wife;  - 
nevertheless,  it  i-  next  to  impossibility  for  me  to 
put  ideas  into  words.  Even  in  writing  these  two 
or  three  lines.  I  have  fallen  into  several  long  fits 
of  musing.  I  wish  there  was  something  in  the 
intellectual  world  analogous  to  the  Daguerrotype 
(is  that  the  name  of  if?)  in  the  visible  —  some 
thing  which  should  print  off  our  deepest,  and  sub 
tlest,  and  delicatest  thoughts  and  feelings  as  mi 
nutely  and  accurately  as  the  above-mentioned  in 
strument  paints  the  various  aspects  of  Nature. 
Then  might  my  Dove  and  I  interchange  our  rev 
eries—but  my  Dove  would  get  only  lead  in  ex 
change  for  gold.  Dearest,  your  last  letter  brought 
the  warmth  of  your  very  heart  to  your  husband  — 

109 


Belovedest,  1  cannot  possibly  write  one  word 
more,  to-night. 

This  striving  to  talk  on  paper  does  but  remove 
you  farther  from  me.  It  seems  as  it  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  fled  away  into  infinite  space  the  moment  I 
try  to  fix  her  image  before  me  in  order  to  inspire 
my  pen;  —  whereas,  no  sooner  do  I  give  .myself  up 
to  reverie,  than  here  she  i>  again,  smiling  light- 
somely  by  my  side.  There  will  be  no  writing  of 
letters  in  Heaven;  at  least,  I  shall  write  none  then, 
though  I  think  it  would  add  considerably  to  my 
bliss  to  receive  them  from  mv  Dove.  Never  was 
I  so  stupid  as  to-night;— and  yet  it  is  not  exactly 
stupidity,  either,  for  mv  fancy  is  bright  enough, 
only  it  has,  just  at  this  time,  no  command  of  ex 
ternal  symbols.  Good  night,  dearest  wife.  Love 
your  husband,  and  dream  of  him. 

Deer.  12th— 6  P.M.  Blessedest  —  Dove-ward 
and  Sophie  Hawthorne-ward  dotii  your  husband 
acknowledge  himself  "very  reprehensible,"  for 
leaving  his  poor  wife  destitute  of  news  from  him 
such  an  interminable  time — one,  two,  three,  four 
days  tomorrow  noon.  After  seven  years'  absence, 
without  communication,  a  marriage,  if  I  mistake 
not,  is  deemed  to  be  legally  dissolved.  Does  it 
not  appear  at  least  seven  years  to  my  Dove,  since 
we  parted?  It  does  to  me.  And  will  my  Dove, 
or  naught}  Sophie  Hawthorne,  ch<x)se  to  take  ad- 

1 1O 


vantage  of  the  law,  and  declare  our  marriage  mil' 
and  void?  Oh,  naughty,  naughty,  naughtiest 
Sophie  Hawthorne,  to  surfer  such  an  idea  to  come 
into  your  head!  The  Dove,  I  am  sure,  would  not 
disown  her  husband,  but  would  keep  her  heart 
warm  with  faith  and  love.tor  a  million  of  years;  so 
that  when  he  returned  to  her  (as  he  surely  would, 
at  some  period  of  Kternity,  to  spend  the  rest  of 
eternal  existence  with  her)  he  would  seem  to  rind 
in  her  bosom  the  warmth  which  his  parting  em 
brace  had  left  there. 

Very  dearest,  T  do  wish  you  would  come  to  see 
me,  this  evening.  If  we  could  be  together  in  this 
very  parlour  of  ours,  I  think  you,  and  both  of  us. 
would  feel  more  completely  at  home  than  we  ever 
have  before  in  all  our  lives.  Your  chamber  is  but 
a  room  in  your  mother's  house,  where  my  Dove 
cannot  claim  an  independent  and  separate  right ; 
she  has  a  right,  to  be  sure,  but  it  is  as  a  daughter. 
As  a  wife,  it  might  be  a  question  whether  she  has 
a  right.  Now  this  pleasant  little  room,  where  T 
sit,  together  with  the  bed-nx>m  in  which  I  intend 
to  dream  tonight  of  my  Dove,  is  my  dwelling,  my 
castle,  mine  own  place  wherein  to  be,  which  I  have 
bought,  for  the  time  being,  with  the  profits  of 
mine  own  labor.  Then  is  it  not  our  home? 

(Rest  of  letter  missing) 


111 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Deer.  i8th,  1839  —  nearly  j  P.  M, 
Bclovedcst) 

I  wish  you  could  see  our  parlour  to-night  —  how 
bright  and  cheerful  it  looks,  with  the  bla/e  of  the 
coal-fire  throwing  a  ruddy  tinge  over  the  walls, 
in  spite  of  the  yellow  gleam  of  two  lamps.  Now 
if  my  Dove  were  sitting  in  the  easiest  of  our  two 
easy  chairs  —  (for  sometimes  I  should  choose  to 
have  her  sit  in  a  separate  chair,  in  order  to  realise 
our  individuality,  as  well  as  our  unity)  —  then 
would  the  included  space  of  these  tour  walls,  to 
gether  writh  the  little  contiguous  bed-room,  seem 
indeed  like  home.  —  But  the  soul  of  home  is  want 
ing  now.  Oh,  naughtiest,  why  are  you  not  here  to 
welcome  your  husband  when  he  comes  in  at  even 
tide,  chilled  with  his  wintry  day's  toil?  Why 
does  he  not  find  the  table  placed  cosily  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and  a  cup  of  tea  steaming  fragrantly  —  or 
else  a  bowl  of  warm  bread  and  milk,  such  as  his 

112 


Dove  feeds  upon?  A  much-to-be-pitied  husband 
am  I,  naughty  wife  —  a  homeless  man  —  a  wanderer 
in  the  desert  of  this  prat  city;  picking  up  a  pre 
carious  subsistence  wherever  I  happen  to  find  a 
restaurateur  or  an  oyster-shop— and  returning  at 
night  to  a  lonely  fireside.  Dearest,  have  I  brought 
the  tears  into  your  eyes?  What  an  unwise  little 
person  is  my  Dove,  to  let  the  tears  gather  in  her  eyes 
for  such  nonsensical  pathos  as  this!  Yet  not  non 
sensical  either,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  sore  trial  to  your 
husband  to  be  estranged  from  that  which  makes 
life  a  reality  to  him,  and  to  be  compelled  to  spend 
so  many  (rod-given  days  in  a  dream  —  in  an  out 
ward  show,  which  has  nothing  to  satisfy  the  soul 
that  has  become  acquainted  with  truth.  But, 
mine  own  wife,  if  you  had  not  taught  me  what 
happiness  is,  I  should  not  have  known  that  there 
is  anything  lacking  to  me  now.  I  am  dissatisfied 
—  not  because,  at  any  former  period  of  my  life,  I 
was  ever  a  thousandth  part  so  happy  as  now  — but 
because  Hope  feeds  and  grows  strong  on  the  hap 
piness  within  me.  (rood  night,  belovedest  wife. 
I  have  a  note  to  write  to  Mr.  Ca(>en,  who  torments 
me  every  now-and-then  about  a  book  which  he 
wants  me  to  manufacture.  Hereafter,  I  intend 
that  my  Dove  shall  manage  all  my  correspond 
ence: —  indeed,  it  is  my  purjx>se  to  throw  all  sorts 

"3 


of    trouble    upon    my    Dove's    shoulders,      (rood 
night  now,  dearest.— 

December  2oth—  7  P.M.  Blessedest  wife- 
has  not  Sophie  Hawthorne  been  very  impatient  for 
this  letter,  one  halt  of  which  yet  remains  undevel 
oped  in  my  brain  and  heart?  Would  that  she 
could  enter  those  inward  regions,  and  re, id  the  let 
ter  there — together  with  so  much  that  never  can 
be  expressed  in  written  or  spoken  words.  And 
can  she  not  do  this?  The  Dove  can  do  it,  even 
if  Sophie  Hawthorne  fail.  Dearest,  would  it  be 
unreasonable  for  me  to  ask  you  to  manage  my 
share  of  the  correspondence,  as  well  as  your  own? 

—  to  throw  yourself  into  my  heart,  and  make  it 
gush  out  with  more  warmth  and  freedom  than  my 
own  pen  can  avail  to  do?  How  1  should  delight  to 
see  an  epistle  from  myself  to  Sophie  Hawthorne, 
written  by  my   Dove!  —  or  to  my   Dove,  Sophie 
Hawthorne  being  the  amanuensis!    I  doubt  not, 
that  truths  would  then  be  spoken,  which  my  heart 
would  recognise  as  exi.sting  within  its  depths,  yet 
which  can  never  be  clothed  in  words  of  my  own. 
You  know  that  we  are  one 'another's  consciousness 

—  then  it  is  not  }x>ss — My  dearest,  George  Hi  Hard 
has  come  in  upon  me,  in  the  midst  of  the  foregoing 
sentence,   and   I   have   utterly   forgotten   what   I 
meant  to  say.     But  it  is  not  much  matter.     Even 

114 


if  I  could  convince  you  of  the  expediency  of  your 
writing  my  letters  as  well  as  your  own,  still,  when 
you  attempted  to  take  the  pen  out  of  my  hand,  I 
believe  I  should  resist  very  strenuously.  For,  he- 
lovedest,  though  not  an  epistolarian  hy  nature,  yet 
the  instinct  of  communicating  myself  to  you 
makes  it  a  necessity  and  a  joy  to  write. 

Your  hushand  has  received  an  invitation, 
through  Mr.  Collector  Bancroft,  to  go  to  Dr. 
Chan n ing's  to-night.  What  is  to  he  done1?  Any 
thing,  rather  than  to  go.  I  never  will  venture 
into  company,  unless  I  can  put  myself  under  the 
protection  of  Sophie  Hawthorne.  She,  I  am  sure, 
will  take  care  that  no  harm  comes  to  me.  Or  my 
Dove  might  take  me  "under  her  wing." 

Dearest,  you  must  not  expert  me  too  fervently 
on  Christmas  eve,  because  it  is  very  uncertain  whe 
ther  Providence  will  bring  us  together  then.  If 
not,  I  shall  take  care  to  advise  you  thereof  by  let 
ter —  which,  however,  may  chance  not  to  come  to 
hand  till  three  o'clock  on  Christmas,  day.  And 
there  will  be  my  Dove,  making  herself  nervous 
with  waiting  for  me.  Dearest,  I  wish  I  could  be 
the  source  ot  nothing  but  happiness  to  you — and 
that  disquietude,  ho|>e  deferred,  and  disappoint 
ment,  might  not  ever  have  aught  to  do  with  your 
affection.  Does  the  joy  coni|)ensate  for  the  pain? 


Naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne — silly  Dove — will 
you  let  that  foolish  question  bring  tears  into  your 
eyes? 

My  Dove's  letter  was  duly  received. 

Your  lovingest 

HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass: 


116 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  December  24th,  1839.  6  or  7  P.MJ 
My  vcrv  dearest* 

While  I  sit  down  disconsolately  to  write  this 
letter,  at  this  very  moment  is  my  Dove  expecting 
to  hear  her  husband's  footstep  upon  the  threshold. 
She  fully  believes,  that,  within  the  limits  of  the 
hour  which  is  now  passing,  she  will  be  clasped  to 
my  bosom.  Belovedest,  I  cannot  bear  to  have 
you  yearn  for  me  so  intensely.  By  and  bye,  when 
you  find  that  I  do  not  come,  our  head  will  begin 
to  ache;—  but  still,  being  the  "hopingest  little  per 
son"  in  the  world,  you  will  not  give  me  up,  per 
haps  till  eight  o'clock.  But  soon  it  will  be  bed 
time  —  it  will  be  deep  night  —  and  not  a  spoken 
word,  not  a  written  line,  will  have  come  to  your 
heart  from  your  naughtiest  of  all  husbands.  So 
phie  Hawthorne,  at  least,  will  deem  hinrf  the 
naughtiest  of  husband*;  but  my  Dove  will  keep 
her  faith  in  him  just  as  firmly  and  fervently,  as  if 
she  were  acquainted  with  the  particular  ini|X)ssi- 

117 


bilities  which  keep  him  from  her.  Dearest  wife, 
I  did  hope,  till  this  afternoon,  that  I  should  be  able 
to  disburthen  myself  of  the  cargo  of  salt  which 
has  been  resting  on  my  weary  shoulders  for  a  week 
past;  but  it  does  seem  as  if  Heaven's  mercy  were 
not  meant  for  us  miserable  Custom-House  officers. 
The  holiest  of  holydays — the  day  that  brought 
ransom  to  all  other  sinners — leaves  us  in  slavery 
still. 

Nevertheless,  dc;..3st,  if  I  did  not  feel  two  dis 
appointments  in  one — your  own  and  mine — I 
should  feel  much  more  comfortable  and  resigned 
than  I  do.  If  I  could  have  come  to  you  to-night, 
I  must  inevitably  have  returned  hither  tomorrow 
evening.  But  now,  in  requital  of  my  present 
heaviness  of  spirit,  I  am  resolved  that  my  next 
visit  shall  be  at  least  one  day  longer  than  I  could 
otherwise  have  ventured  to  make  it.  We  cannot 
spend  this  Christmas  eve  together,  mine  own  wife; 
but  I  have  faith  that  you  will  see  me  on  the  eve 
of  the  New  Year.  Will  not  you  be  glad  when  I 
come  home  to  spend  three  whole  days,  that  I  was 
kept  away  from  you  for  a  few  brief  hours  on 
Christmas  eve4?  For  if  I  went  now,  I  could  not  be 
with  you  then. 

My  blessedest,  write  and  let  me  know  that  you 
have  not  been  very  much  disturbed  by  my  non- 

118 


appearance.  I  pray  you  to  have  the  feelings  of  a 
wife  towards  me,  dearest — that  is,  you  must  feel 
that  my  whole  life  is  yours,  a  life-time  of  long 
days,  and  therefore  it  is  no  irreparable  nor  very 
grievous  loss,  though  sometimes  a  few  of  those 
days  are  wasted  away  from  you.  A  wife  should  be 
calm  and  quiet,  in  the  settled  certainty  of  possess 
ing  her  husband.  Above  all,  dearest,  bear  these 
crosses  with  philosophy  for  my  sake;  for  it  makes 
me  anxious  and  depressed,  to  imagine  your  an 
xiety  and  depression.  Oh,  that  you  could  be  very 
joyful  when  I  come,  and  yet  not  sad  when  I  fail  to 
come!  Is  that  ini[X)ssible,  my  sweetest  Dove?— 
is  it  'impossible,  my  naughtiest  vSophie  Haw 
thorne4? 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Jany.  i?%  1840.  6  o'clock  P.M. 
Relovedest  wife, 

Your  husband's  heart  was  exceedingly  touched 
by  that  little  backhanded  note,  and  likewise  by 
the  bundle  of*  allumettes  —  half'  a  do/en  of  which 
I  have  just  been  kissing  with  great  affection. 
Would  that  I  might  kiss  that  poor  dear  ringer  of 
mine!  Kiss  it  for  my  sake,  sweetest  Dove  —  and 
tell  naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne  to  kiss  it  too. 
Nurse  it  well,  dearest;  for  no  small  part  of  my 
comfort  and  cheeriness  of  heart  depends  upon  that 
beloved  linger.  If  it  be  not  well  enough  to  bear 
its  part  in  writing  me  a  letter  within  a  few  days, 
do  not  be  surprised  if  I  send  down  the  best  sur 
geon  in  Boston  to  effect  a  speedy  cure.  Neverthe 
less,  darlingest  wife,  restrain  the  good  little  finger, 
if  it  show  any  inclination  to  recommence  its  labors 
too  soon.  If  your  finger  be  pained  in  writing, 
your  husband's  heart  ought  to  (and  I  hoj>e  would) 
feel  every  twinge. 

120 


Belovedest,  I  have  not  yet  i  shed  you  a  Happy 
New  Year!  And  yet  I  h.ivr—  many,  many  of 
them;  as  many,  mine  own  wife,  as  we  can  enjoy 
together — and  when  we  can  no  more  enjoy  them 
together,  we  shall  no  longer  think  of  Happy  New 
Years  on  earth,  but  look  longingly  for  the  New 
Year's  Day  of  eternity.  What  a  year  the  last  has 
been!  Dearest,  you  make  the  same  exclamation; 
but  my  heart  originates  it  too.  It  has  been  the 
year  of  years— the  year  in  which  the  flower  of  our 
life  has  bloomed  out  —  the  flower  of  our  life  and 
of  our  love,  which  we  are  to  wear  in  our  bosoms 
forever.  Oh,  how  I  love  you,  belovedest  wife!- 
and  how  I  thank  God  that  He  has  made  me  capa 
ble  to  know  and  love  you!  Sometimes  I  feel,  deep, 
deep  down  in  my  heart,  how  dearest  above  all 
things  you  are  to  me;  and  those  are  blissful  mo 
ments.  It  is  ode1;  ;i  hap;  v:\ess  to  be  conscious,  at 
last,  of  something  real.  All  my  life  hitherto,  f 
have  been  walking  in  a  dream,  among  shadows 
which  could  not  be  pressed  to  my  bosom ;  but  now, 
even  in  this  dream  of  time,  there  is  something  that 
takes  me  out  of  it,  and  causes  me  to  be  a  dreamer 
no  more.  Do  you  not  feel,  dearest,  that  we  live 
above  time  and  apart  from  time,  even  while  we 
seem  to  be  in  the  midst  of  time?  Our  affection 
diffuses  eternity  round  about  us. 

121 


My  carefullest  little  wife  will  rejoice  to  kno\\ 
that  I  have  been  tree  to  sit  by  a  good  fire  all  this 
bitter  cold  day  —  not  but  what  I  have  a  salt-ship 
on  my  hands,  but  she  must  have  some  ballast,  be 
fore  she  can  discharge  any  more  salt;  and  ballast 
cannot  be  procured  till  the  day  after  tomorrow. 
Are  not  these  details  very  interesting?  I  have  a 
mind, some  day,  to  send  my  dearest  a  journal  of  all 
my  doings  and  sufferings,  my  whole  external  life, 
from  the  time  I  awake  at  dawn,  till  I  close  my 
eyes  at  night.  What  a  dry,  dull  history  would  it 
be!  But  then,  apart  from  this,  I  would  write  an 
other  journal  of  my  inward  life  throughout  the 
self-same  day — my  fits  of  pleasant  thought,  and 
those  likewise  which  are  shadowed  by  passing 
clouds — the  yearnings  of  my  heart  towards  my 
Dove — my  pictures  of  what  we  are  to  enjoy  to 
gether.  Nobody  would  think  that  the  same  man 
could  live  two  such  different  lives  simultaneously. 
But  then,  as  I  have  said  above,  the  grosser  life  is  a 
dream,  and  the  spiritual  life  a  reality.  • 

Very  dearest,  I  wish  you  would  make  out  a  list 
of  books  that  you  would  like  to  be  in  our  library ; 
for  I  intend,  whenever  the  cash  and  the  opportun 
ity  occur  together,  to  buy  enough  to  fill  up  our  new 
book-case;  and  I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  buying 
them  for  both  of  us.  When  I  next  come  to  Sa 
lem,  you  shall  read  the  list,  and  we  will  discuss  it, 

122 


volume  by  volume.  I  suppose  the  hook-case  will 
hold  about  two  hundred  volumes;  but  you  need 
not  calculate  upon  making  such  a  vast  collection 
all  at  once.  It  shall  be  accomplished  in  small 
lots;  and  then  we  shall  prize  every  volume,  and 
receive  a  separate  pleasure  from  the  acquisition 
of  it. 

Does  it  seem  a  great  while  since  I  left  you, 
dearest?  Truly,  it  does  to  me.  These  separa 
tions  lengthen  our  earthly  lives  by  at  least  nine- 
tenths;  but  then,  in  our  brief  seasons  of  commun 
ion,  there  is  the  essence  of  a  thousand  years.  Was 
it  Thursday  that  I  told  my  Dove  would  be  the  day 
of  my  next  appearance?— or  Friday?  kk()h,  Fri 
day,  certainly!"  says  Sophie  Hawthorne.  Well; 
it  must  be  as  naughty  Sophie  says. 

Oh,  belovedest,  I  want  you.  You  have  given 
me  a  new  feeling,  blessedest  wife—a  sense,  that 
strong  as  I  may  have  deemed  myself,  I  am  insuffi 
cient  for  my  own  support ;  and  that  there  is  a  ten 
der  little  Dove,  without  whose  help  I  cannot  get 
through  this  weary  world  at  all.  God  bless  you, 

oWnest  wife. 

YOUR  OWNKST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 

123 


TO  MISS  PEAPODY 


Boston,  Jany.  3^,  1840  —  3  P.M. 
What  a  best  of  all  possible  husbands  you  have* 
sweetest  wife,  to  be  writing  to  you  so  .soon  again, 
although  he  has  heard  nothing  from  you  since  the 
latter  part  of  the  year  1^39!  What  a  weary  length 
of  time  that  naughty  finder  has  been  ill  !      Unless 
there  are  signs  of  speedy  amendment,   we  must 
begin  to  think  of  ''rotation  in  office,"  and  the  left 
hand  must  be  nominated  to  the  executive  duties  ot 
which  the  right  is  no  longer  capable.     Yet,  dear 
est,  do  not  imagine  that  I  am  impatient.     I  do  in 
deed  long  to  see  your  delicatest  little  penmanship; 
(  what  an  enormity  it  would  be  to  call  my  Dove's 
most  feminine  of  handwritings  pen;//j«ship!)  but 
it  would  take  away  all  the  happiness  of  it,  when  1 
reflected  that  each  individual  letter  had  been  a 
pain  to  you.     Nay  ;  I  would  not  have  you  write,  if 
you  find  that  the  impediments  of  this  mode  of  ut 
terance  check  the  flow  of  your  mind  and  heart. 

But  you  tell  me  that  the  wounded  finger  will  be 
no  hindrance  to  your  painting.   Very  glad  am  I, 

124 


clearest;  for  you  cannot  think  how  much  delight 
those  pictures  are  going  to  give  me.  I  shall  sit 
and  ga'/e  at  them  whole  hours  together — and  these 
will  he  my  happiest  hours,  the  fullest  of  you, 
though  all  are  full  of  you.  I  never  owned  a  pic 
ture  in  my  life;  yet  pictures  have  always  been 
among  the  earthly  possessions  (and  they  are  spir 
itual  possessions  too)  which  I  most  coveted.  I 
know  not  what  value  my  Dove's  pictures  might 
bear  at  an  auction-room ;  hut  to  me,  certainly,  the) 
will  be  incomparably  more  precious  than  all  the 
productions  of  all  the  painters  since  Apelles. 
When  we  live  together  in  our  own  home,  beloved- 
est,  we  will  paint,  pictures  together — that  is,  our 
minds  and  hearts  shall  unite  to  form  the  conception, 
to  which  your  hand  shall  give  material  existence. 
I  have  often  felt  as  it  I  could  be  i'  painter,  only  I 
am  sure  that  I  could  never  handle  a  brush; — now 
my  Dove  will  show  me  the  images  of  my  inward 
eye,  beautified  and  ethereal ised  by  the  mixture  of 
her  own  spirit.  Belovedest,  I  think  I  shall  get 
these  two  pictures  put  into  mahogany  frames,  be 
cause  they  will  harmoni'/e  better  with  the  furni 
ture  of  our  parlor  than  gilt  frames  would. 

While  I  was  writing  the  foregoing  paragraph, 
Mary  has  sent  to  inquire  whether  I  mean  to  go  to 
Salem  tomorrow,  intending,  if  I  did,  to  send  a  let- 


ter  by  me.  But,  alas!  I  am  not  going.  The  in 
quiry,  however,  lias  made  me  feel  a  great  yearning 
to  be  there.  But  it  is  not  possible,  because  1  have 
an  engagement  at  Cambridge  on  Saturday  even 
ing;  and  even  it  it  were  otherwise,  it  would  be  bet 
ter  to  wait  till  the  middle  of  the  week,  or  a  little 
later,  when  I  hope  to  spend  three  or  tour  days  with 
you.  Oh,  what  happiness,  when  we  shall  be  able 
to  look  forward  to  an  illimitable  time  in  each 
other's  society  — when  a  day  or  two  of  absence  will 
be  far  more  infrequent  than  the  days  which  we 
spend  together  now.  Then  a  quiet  will  settle 
down  u|x>n  us,  a  passionate  quiet,  which  is  the  con 
summation  of  happiness. 

Dearest,  I  hope  you  have  not  found  it  impracti 
cable  to  walk,  though  the 'atmosphere  be  so  wintry. 
Did  we  walk  together  in  any  such  cold  weather, 
last  winter1!?  I  believe  we  did.  How  strange, 
that  such  a  flower  as  our  affection  should  have 
blossomed  amid  snow  and  wintry  winds — accom 
paniments  which  no  poet  or  novelist,  that  I  know 
of,  has  ever  introduced  into  a  love-tale.  Nothing 
like  our  story  wras  ever  written  —  or  ever  will  be-^ 
for  we  shall  not  feel  inclined  to  make  the  public 
our  confidant;  but  if  it  could  be  told,  methinks  it 
would  be  such  as  the  angels  might  take  delight  tc 
hear.  If  I  mistake  not,  my  Dove  has  expressed 
some  such  idea  as  this,  in  one  of  her  recent  letters. 

126 


Well-a-day!  I  have  strolled  thus  far  through 
my  letter,  without  once  making  mention  of 
naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne.  Will  she  pardon 
the  neglect  ?  Present  my  profound  respects  to 
her  beloved  nose,  and  say  that  I  still  entreat  her  to 
allow  my  Dove  to  kiss  her  cheek.  When  she  com 
plies  with  this  oft-repeated  petition.  I  shall  hope 
that  her  spirit  is  beginning  to  be  tamed,  and  shall 
then  meditate  some  other  and  more  difficult  trials 
of  it.  Nonsense!  Do  not  believe  me,  dear  little 
Sophie  Hawthorne.  I  would  not  tame  you  for 
the  whole  t'niverse. 

But  now  good  bye,  dearest  wife.  Keep  your 
self  in  good  heart  while  I  am  absent,  and  grow 
round  and  plump  and  rosy;  — eat  a  whole  chicken 
every  day; — go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  or  earlier, 
and  sleep  sound  till  sunrise.  Come  to  me  in 
dreams,  beloved.  What  should  I  do  in  this  wean 
world,  without  the  idea  of  you,  dearest!  Give 
my  love  to  your  father  and  mother,  and  to  Eli'/a- 

beth. 

God  bless  you,  darling. 

Yoi'R  OWNEST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


127 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Jany.  24th,  1840  —  4  P.M. 
Oicncst  Dove, 

Your  letter  came  this  forenoon,  announcing  the 
advent  of  the  pictures;  so  T  came  home  as  soon  as 
I  possibly  could  —  and  there  was  the  package!  T 
naturally  trembled  as  I  undid  it,  so  eager  was  I  to 
behold  them.  Dearissima,  there  never  was  any 
thing  so  lovely  and  precious  in  this  world.  They 
are  perfect.  So  soon  as  the  dust  and  smoke  of  my 
fire  had  evaporated,  I  put  them  on  the  mantel 
piece,  and  sat  a  long  time  before  them  with 
clasped  hands,  ga/ing,  and  ga'/ing,  and  ga'/ing, 
and  painting  a  fac-simile  of  them  in  my  heart,  in 
whose  most  sacred  chamber  they  shall  keep  a  place 
forever  and  ever.  Belovedest,  I  was  not  long  in 
finding  out  the  Dove  in  the  Menaggio.  In  fact, 
she  was  the  very  first  object  that  my  eyes  rested  on, 
when  I  uncovered  the  picture.  She  flew  straight 
way  into  my  heart  —  and  yet  she  remains  just 
where  you  placed  her.  Dearest,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  your  strict  injunctions  that  nobody  nor 

128 


anything  should  touch  the  pictures,  I  do  believe 
that  my  lips  would  have  touched  that  naughty 
Sophie  Hawthorne,  as  she  stands  on  the  bridge. 
Do  you  think  the  perverse  little  damsel  would 
have  vanished  beneath  my  kiss?  What  a  misfor 
tune  would  that  have  been  to  her  poor  lover!  —  to 
find  that  he  kissed  away  his  mistress.  But,  at 
worst,  she  would  have  remained  on  my  lips. 
However,  1  shall  retrain  from  all  endearments,  till 
you  tell  me  that  a  kiss  may  be  hazarded  without 
fear  of  her  taking  it  in  ill  part  and  absenting  her 
self  without  leave. 

Mine  ownest,  it  is  a  very  noble-looking  cavalier 
with  whom  Sophie  is  standing  on  the  bridge.  Are 
you  quite  sure  that  her  own  husband  is  the  com 
panion  of  her  walk6?  Yet  I  need  not  ask— for 
there  is  the  Dove  to  bear  witness  to  his  identity. 
That  true  and  tender  bird  would  never  have 
alighted  on  another  hand— never  have  rested  so 
near  another  bosom.  Yes ;  it  must  be  my  very  self ; 
and  from  henceforth  k  shall  be  held  for  an  abso 
lute  and  indisputable  truth.  It  is  not  my  picture, 
but  the  very  I;  and  as  my  inner  self  belongs  to 
you,  there  is  no  doubt  that  you  have  caused  my 
soul  to  pervade  the  figure.  There  we  are,  un 
changeable.  Years  cannot  alter  us,  nor  our  re 
lation  to  each  other. 

129      . 


Ownest,  we  will  talk  about  these  pictures  all 
our  lives  and  longer;  so  there  is  no  need  that  I 
should  say  all  that  I  think  and  feel  about  them 
now ;  especially  as  I  have  yet  only  begun  to  under 
stand  and  feel  them.  I  have  put  them  into  my 
bed-room  for  the  present,  being  afraid  to  trust 
them  on  the  mantel-piece;  but  I  cannot  help  going 
to  feast*  my  eyes  upon  them,  every  little  while.  I 
have  determined  not  to  hang  them  up  till  after  I 
have  been  to  Salem,  for  fear  of  the  dust  and  of  the 
fingers  of  the  chamber-maid  and  other  visitants. 
Whenever  I  am  away,  they  will  be  safely  locked 
up,  either  in  the  bureau  or  in  my  closet.  I  shall 
want  your  express  directions  as  to  the  height  at 
which  they  ought  to  be  hung,  and  the  width  of  the 
space  between  them,  and  other  minutest  particu 
lars.  We  will  discuss  these  matters,  when  I  come 
home  to  my  wife. 

Belovedest,  there  are  several  obstacles  to  my 
coming  home  immediately.  At  present,  two  of 
the  Measurers  are  employed,  and  another  is  de 
tained  at  his  home  in  Chelsea  by  the  sickness  of 
his  family,  and  Colonel  Hall  continues  too  unwell 
to  be  at  the  Custom-House ;  so  that  I  am  the  only 
%one  in  attendance  there;  and  moreover  I  have  a 
coal  vessel  to  discharge  to-morrow.  But  this  state 
of  affairs  will  not  continue  long.  I  think  I  can 
not  fail  to  be  at  liberty  by  Tuesday  or  Wednesday 

130 


at  furthest;  and  at  all  events,  next  week  shall  not 
pass  without  our  meeting;  even  if  I  should  have 
barely  time  to  press  you  in  my  arms,  and  say  good 
bye.  But  the  probability  is,  that  I  shall  come  to 
spend  a  week. 

Dearissima,  be  patient — Sophie  Hawthorne  as 
well  as  the  Dove. 

My  carefullest  little  wife,  I  am  of  opinion  that 
Elizabeth  has  been  misinformed  as  to  the  in 
creased  prevalence  of  the  small-pox.  It  could  not 
he  so  generally  caused  among  the  merchants  and 
business-people  without  my  being  aware  of  it;  nor 
do  I  hear  of  its  committing  such  fearful  ravages 
anywhere.  The  folks  at  the  Custom-House  know 
of  no  such  matter;  nor  does  George  Hillard.  In 
truth,  I  had  supposed  (till  I  heard  otherwise  from 
you)  that  all  cause  for  alarm  was  past.  Trust 
me,  dearest,  there  is  no  need  of  heart-quake  on  my 
account.  You  have  been  in  greater  danger  than 
your  husband. 

God  be  with  you,  blessedest  and  blessingest.  I 
did  .  .  . 

(Remainder  of  letter  missing) 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 

rdtb* 

» 

Boston,  February  7th,  1840  —  1/2  past  3  P.M. 


Owncst 

Can  you  reckon  the  ages  that  have  elapsed  since 
our  last  embrace?  It  quite  surpasses  my  powers 
of  computation.  I  only  know  that,  in  some  long 
by-gone  time,  I  had  a  wife  —  and  that  now  I  am 
a  widowed  man,  living  not  in  the  present,  but  in 
the.  past  rr.d  future.  My  life  would  be  empty  in 
deed,  if  I  could  neither  remember  nor  anticipate; 
but  I  can  do  both;  and  so  my  heart  continues  to 
keep  itself  full  of  light  and  warmth.  Belovedest, 
let  it  be  so  likewise  with  you.  You  promised  me 
—  did  you  not?  —  to  be  happy  during  our  separa 
tion,  and  really  I  must  insist  uj>on  holding  you  to 
your  word  even  if  it  should  involve  a  miracle. 

Dearest,  I  have  hung  up  the  pictures  —  the  Isola 
over  the  mantel-piece,  and  the  Menaggio  on  the 
opposite  wall.  This  arrangement  pleased  me  bet 
ter,  on  the  whol£,  than  the  other  which  we  contem- 


132 


plated;  and  I  cannot  perceive  but  that  the  light 
is  equally  favorable  for  them  both.  You  cannot 
imagine  how  they  glorify  our  parlor — and  what  a 
-olace  they  are  to  its  widowed  inhabitant.  I  sit 
before  them  with  something  of  the  quiet  and  repose 
which  your  own  beloved  presence  is  wont  to  im 
part  to  me.  I  gaze  at  them  by  all  sorts  of  light  — 
daylight,  twilight,  and  candle-light;  and  when 
the  lamps  are  extinguished,  and  before  getting  into 
bed,  I  >it  looking  at  these  pictures,  by  the  flicker 
ing  fire-light.  They  are  truly  an  infinite  enjoy 
ment.  I  take  great  care  of  them,  and  have  hith 
erto  hung  the  curtains  before  them  every  morning; 
and  they  remain  covered  rill  after  I  have  kindled 
my  fire  in  the  afternoon.  But  I  suppose  this  pre 
caution  need  not  be  taken  much  longer.  I  think 
that  this  slight  veil  produces  a  not  unpleasing  ef 
fect,  especially  upon  the  Isola — a  gentle  and  ten 
der  gloom,  like  the  first  approaches  of  twilight. 
Nevertheless,  whenever  I  remove  the  curtains  I  am 
always  struck  with  new  surprise  at  the  beautv 
which  then  gleams  forth.  Mine  ownest,  you  are 
a  wonderful  little  Dove. 

What  beautiful  weather  this  is—beautiful,  at 
least,  so  far  as  sun,  sky,  and  atmosphere  are  con 
cerned;  though  a  poor  wingless  biped,  like  my 
Dove's  husband,  is  sometimes  constrained  to  wish 

133 


that  he  could  raise  himself  a  little  above  the  earth 
How  much  mud  and  mire,  how  many  |x>ols  of  un 
clean  water,  how  many  slippery  footsteps  and  per 
chance  heavy  tumbles,  might  be  avoided,  if  we 
could  but  tread  six  inches  above  the  crust  of  this 
world.  Physically,  we  cannot  do  this;  our  bodies 
cannot;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  our  hearts  and 
minds  may  keep  themselves  above  moral  mud- 
puddles,  and  other  discomforts  of  the  soul's  path 
way,  and  so  enjoy  the  sunshine. 

I  have  added  Coleridge's  Poems,  a  very  good 
edition  in  three  volumes,  to  our  library.  Dearest, 
dearest,  what  a  joy  it  is  to  think  of  you,  whenever 
T  buy  a  book — to  think  that  we  shall  read  them 
aloud  to  one  another,  and  that  they  are  to  be  our 
mutual  and  familiar  friends  for  life.  I  intended 
to  have  asked  you  again  for  that  list  which  you 
shewed  me ;  but  it  will  do  the  next  time  I  come.  I 
mean  to  go  to  a  book-auction  this  evening.  When 
our  book-case  is  filled,  my  bibliomania  will  prob 
ably  cease;  for  its  shelves,  I  think,  would  hold 
about  all  the  books  that  I  should  care  to  read — all, 
at  least,  that  I  should  wish  to  |X)ssess  as  household 
friends. 

What  a  reprehensible  husband  am  I,  not  to 
have  inquired,  in  the  very  first  sentence  of  my  let- 

134 


ten  whether  my  belovedejst  has  quite  recovered 
from  the  varioloid !  But,  in  truth,  it  seemed  so  long 
since  we  parted,  that  none  but.  chronic  diseases" can 
have  subsisted  from  that  time  to  this.  I  make  no 
doubt,  therefore,  but  that  the  afflicted  arm  is  en 
tirely  recovered,  and  that  only  a  slight  scar  re 
mains —  which  shall  be  kissed,  some  time  or  other. 
And  how  are  your  eyes,  my  blessedest?  Do  not 
torture  them  by  attempting  to  write,  before  they 
are  quite  well.  If  you  inflict  pain  on  them  for 
such  a  puqx>se,  your  husband's  eyes  will  be  sensi 
ble  of  it,  when  he  shall  read  your  letters.  Remem 
ber  that  we  have  now  a  common  property  in  each 
other's  eyes. 

Dearest,  I  have  not  seen  Colonel  Hall  since  my 
return  hither — he  being  gone  to  Maine.  When 
he  comes  back,  or  shortly  thereafter,  I  will  try  to 
prevail  on  your  neglectful  spouse  to  pay  you  a 
short  visit.  Methinks  he  is  a  very  cold  and  love 
less  sort  of  person.  I'  have  been  pestering  him, 
ever  since  I  began  this  letter,  to  send  you  some 
word  of  affectionate  remembrance ;  but  he  utterly 
refuses  to  send  anything,  save  a  kiss  apiece  to  the 
Dove's  eyes  and  mouth,  and  to  Sophie  Haw 
thorne's  nose  and  foot.  Will  you  have  the  kind 
ness  to  see  that  these  valuable  consignments  ar* 

135 


rive  at  their  destination4?  Dearest  wife,  the  let 
ter-writer  belies  your  ownest  husband.  He  thinks 
of  you,  and  yearns  for  you  all  day  long. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


136 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  Feby.  IIth,  1840  —  7  P.M. 
Belovedesti 

Your  letter,  with  its  assurance  of  your  present 
convalescence,  and  its  promise  (to  which  I  shall 
hold  you  fast)  that  you  will  never  he  sick  any 
more,  caused  me  much  joy.  .  .  .  Dearest, 
George  Hillard  came  in  just  as  I  had  written  the 
first  sentence;  so  we  will  begin  on  a  new  score. 

Your  husband  has  been  measuring  coal  all  day, 
aboard  of  a  black  little  British  schooner,  in  a  dis 
mal  dock  at  the  north  end  of  the  city.  Most  of 
the  time,  he  paced  the  deck  to  keep  himself  warm; 
for  the  wind  (north-east,  I  believe  it  was)  blew  up 
through  the  dock,  as  if  it  had  been  the  pipe  of  'a 
pair  of  bellows.  The  vessel  lying  deep  between 
two  wharves,  there  was  no  more  delightful  pros 
pect,  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  than  the 
posts  and  timbers,  half  immersed  in  the  water,  and 
covered  with  ice,  which  the  rising  and  falling  of 
Successive  tides  had  left  ujxin  them;  so  that  they 

137 


looked,  like  immense  icicles.  Across  the  water, 
however,  not  more  than  halt  a  mile  off,  appeared 
the  Bunker  Hill  monument;  and  what  interested 
me  considerably  more,  a  church-steeple,  wich  the 
dial  of  a  clock  upon  it,- whereby  I  was  enabled  to 
measure  the  march  of  the  weary  hours.  Sometimes 
your  husband  descended  into  the  dirty  little  cabin 
of  the  schooner,  and  warmed  himself  by  a  red-hot 
stove,  among  biscuit-barrels,  jx>ts  and  kettles,  sea- 
chests,  and  innumerable  lumber  of  all  sorts— his 
olfactories,  meanwhile,  being  greatly  refreshed  by 
the  odour  of  a  pipe,  which  the  captain  or  some  of 
his  crew  were  smoking.  But  at  last  came  the  sun 
set,  wica  uolLvitc  !oi'/K  and  ;'  purple  li.<Tht  upon 
the  islands;  and  your  husband  blessed  it,  because 
it  was  the  signal  of  his  release;  and  so  he  came 
home  to  talk  with  his  dearest  wife.  And  now  he 
bids  her  farewell,  because  he  is. tired  and  sleepy. 
God  bless  you,  belovedest.  Dream  happy  dreams 
of  me  tonight. 

February  12th — Evening.  —  All  day  long  again, 
best  wife,  has  your  poor  husband  been  engaged  in 
a  very  black  business — as  black  as  a  coal;  and 
though  his  face  and  hands  have  undergone  a  thor 
ough  purification,  he  feels  as  if  he  were  not  alto 
gether  fit  to  hold  communion  with  his  white  Dove. 
Methinks  my  profession  is  somewhat  akin  to  that 

138 


of  a  chimney-sweeper;  but  the  latter  has  the  ad 
vantage  over  me,  because,  after  climbing  up 
through  the  darksome  flue  of  the  chimney,  he 
emerges  into  the  midst  of  the  golden  air,  and  sings 
out  his  melodies  far  over  the  heads  of  the  whole 
tribe  of  weary  earth-plodders.  My  dearest,  my 
toil  today  has  been  cold  and  dull  enough;  never 
theless  your  husband  was  neither  cold  nor  dull; 
for  he  kept  his  heart  warm  and  his  spirit  bright 
with  thoughts  of  his  belovedest  wife.  I  had 
strong  and  happy  yearnings  for  you  to-day,  own- 
est  Dove  —  happy,  even  though  it  was  such  an 
eager  longing,  which  I  knew  could  not  then  be  ful 
filled,  to  clasp  you  to  my  bosom.  And  now  here 
I  am  in  our  parlour,  aweary  —  too  tired,  almost,  to 
write. 

Well,  dearest,  my  labors  are  over  for  the  pres 
ent.  I  cannot,  however,  come  home  just  at  pres 
ent,  three  of  the  Measurers  being  now  absent ;  but 
you  shall  see  me  very  soon.  Naughtiest,  why  do 
you  say  that  you  have  scarcely  seen  your  husband, 
this  winter?  Have  there  not,  to  say  nothing  of 
shorter  visits,  been  two  eternities  of  more  than  a 
week  each,  which  were  full  of  blessings  for  us? 
My  Dove  has  quite  forgotten  these.  Oh,  well! 
If  visits  of  a  week  long  be  not  worth  remembering, 
I  shall  alter  my  purpose  of  coming  to  Salem  for 

'  139 


another  like  space;  —  otherwise  I  might  possibly 
have  been  there,  by  Saturday  night,  at  furthest. 
Dear  me,  how  sleepy  I  am!  I  can  hardly  write, 
as  you  will  discover  by  the  blottings  and  scratch- 
ings.  So  good-bye  now,  darlingest; — and  I  will 
finish  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning. 

February  nth—  Past  8  A.M.  Belovedest, 
how  very  soon  this  letter  will  be  in  your  hands. 
It  brings  us  much  closer  together,  \vhen  the 
written  words  of  one  of  us  can  come  to  the  heart 
of  the  other,  in  the  very  same  day  that  they  flowed 
from  the  heart  of  the  writer.  I  mean  to  come 
home  to  our  parlour  early  to-day:  so,  when  you 
receive  this  letter,  you  can  imagine  me  there,  sit 
ting  in  front  of  the  Isola.  I  have  this  moment 
interrupted  myself  to  go  and  look  at  that  precious 
production.  How  I  wish  that  naughty  Sophie". 
Hawthorne  could  be  induced  to  turn  her  face 
towards  me!  Nevertheless,  the  figure  is  her  veri 
table  self,  and  so  would  the  face  be,  only  that  she 
deems  it  too  beauteous  to  be  thrown  away  on  her 
husband's  ga/e.  I  have  not  dared  to  kiss  her  yet. 
Will  she  abide  it? 

My  dearest,  do  not  expect  me  very  fervently 
till  I  come.  I  am  glad  you  were  so  careful  of  your 
inestimable  eyes  as  not  to  write  to  me  yesterday. 
Mrs.  Hillard  says  that  Eli/abeth  made  her  a  call. 

140 


Good-bye.  1  am  very  well  to  day,  and  unspeak- 
ahly  happ\  in  the  thought  that  I  have  a  dearest 
little  wife,  who  loves  me  pretty  well.  God  bless 
her. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  \.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


141 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Roston,  March   I  ifh,  1840  —  2  P.M. 

BlrsseJcst, 

It  seems  as  if  I  were  looking  back  to  a  former 
state  of  existence,  when  I  think  of  the  precious 
hours  which  we  have  lived  together.  And  now 
we  are  in  two  different  worlds  —  widowed,  both  of 
us  —  both  of  us  deceased,  and  each  lamenting  .  .  . 
(  Portion  of  letter  missing) 

Belovedest,  almost  my  first  glance,  on  entering 
our  parlor  after  -my  return  hither,  was  at  the  pic 
tures  —  my  very  first  glance,  indeed,  as  soon  as  I 
had  lighted  the  lamps.  They  have  certainly  grown 
more  beautiful  during  my  absence,  and  are  still 
becoming  more  perfect,  and  perfecter,  and  perfect- 
est.  I  fancied  that  Sophie  Hawthorne,  as  she 
stands  on  the  bridge,  had  slightly  turned  her  head, 
so  as  to  reveal  somewhat  more  of  her  face  ;  but  if 
so,  she  has  since  turned  it  back  again.  I  was  much 
struck  with  the  Menaggio  this  morning;  —  while  I 
was  ga/ing  at  it,  the  sunshine  and  the  shade  grew 

142 


positively  real,  and  I  agreed  with  you,  for  the 
time,  in  thinking  this  a  more  superlative  picture 
than  the  other.  But  when  I  came  home  about  an 
hour  ago,  I  bestowed  my  chiefest  attention  upon 
the  Isola;  and  now  I  believe  it  has  the  first  place 
in  my  affections,  though  without  prejudice  to  a 
very  fervent  love  for  the  other. 

.  .  .  Dove,  there  is  little  prospect  for  me,  in 
deed;  but  forgive  me  for  telling  you  so,  dearest  — 
no  prospect  of  my  returning  so  soon  as  next  Mon 
day;  but  I  have  good  hope  to  be  again  at  liberty 
by  the  close  of  the  week.  Do  be  very  good,  my 
Dove  — be  as  good  as  your  nature  will  permit, 
naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne.  As  to  myself,  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  to  torment  myself  as  much 
as  I  please. 

MY  dearest,  I  am  very  well,  but  exceedingly 
stupid  and  heavy;  .io  the  remainder  of  tins  letter 
shall  be  postponed  until  tomorrow.  Has  my 
Dove  flown  abroad,  this  cold,  bright  day?  Would 
that  the  wind  would  snatch  her  up,  and  waft  her 
to  her  husband. 

How  was  it,  dearest?  And  how  do  you  do  this 
morning?  Is  the  wind  east?  The  sun  shone  on 
the  chimney-tops  round  about  here,  a  few  minutes 
ago;  and  I  ho{>ed  that  there  would  be  a  pleasant 
day  for  my  Dove  to  take  wing,  and  for  Sophie 

H3 


Hawthorne  to  ride  on  horseback,  but  the  sky 
seems  to  be  growing  sullen  now.  Do  you  wish 
to  know  how  your  husband  will  spend  the  day? 
First  of  the  first — but  there  rings  the  bell  tor  eight 
o'clock ;  and  I  must  go  down  to  breakfast. 

After  breakfast;  — First  of  the  first,  your  hus 
band  will  go  to  the  Post-Office,  like  a  dutiful  hus 
band  as  he  is,  to  put  in  this  letter  for  his  beloved- 
est  wife.  Thence  he  will  proceed  to  the  Custom 
House,  and  finding  that  there  is  no  call  for  him  on 
the  wharves,  he  will  sit  down  by  the  Measurers' 
rire,  and  read  the  Morning  Post.  Next,  at  about 
half  past  nine  o'clock,  he  will  go  to  the  Athen 
aeum,  and  turn  over  the  Maga/ines  and  Reviews 
till  eleven  or  twelve,  when  it  will  be  time  to  return 
to  the  Custom-House  to  see  whether  there  be  a  let 
ter  from  Dove  Hawthorne  — and  also  (though  this 
is  of  far  less  importance )  to  see  whether  there  be 
any  demand  tor  his  services  as  Measurer.  At  one 
o'clock,  or  thereabouts,  he  will  go  to  dinner — but 
tirst,  perhaps,  he  will  promenade  the  whole  length 
of  Washington  street,  to  get  himself  an  appetite. 
After  dinner,  he  will  take  one  more  peep  at  the 
Custom-House,  and  it  being  by  this  time  about  two 
o'clock,  and  no  prospect  of  business  to-day,  he  will 
feel  at  liberty  to  come  home  to  our  own  parlor, 
there  to  remain  till  supper-time.  At  six  o'clock 

144 


he  will  sally  forth  again,  to  get  some  oysters  and 
recld  the  evening  papers,  and  returning  between 
seven  and  eight,  he  will  read  and  re-read  his  be- 
lovedest's  letter— then  take  up  a  book— and  go  to 
bed  at  ten,  with  a  blessing  on  his  lips  tor  the  Dove 
and  Sophie  Hawthorne. 


THINK  OWNKST. 


Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass, 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  March  15th,  1840  —  Forenoon. 
Best-belovedest, 

Thy  letter  by  Eli'/abeth  came,  T  believe,  on 
Thursday,  and  the  two  which  thou  didst  entrust 
to  the  post  reached  mo  not  till  yesterday— 
whereby  I  enjoyed  a  double  blessing  in  recompense 
of  the  previous  delay.  Nevertheless,  it  were  de 
sirable  that  the  new  Salem  postmaster  be  forth 
with  ejected,  for  taking  upon  himself  to  withhold 
the  outpourings  of  thy  heart,  at  their  due  season. 
As  for  letters  of  business,  which  involve  merely 
the  gain  or  loss  of  a  few  thousand  dollars,  let  him 
be  as  careless  as  he  pleases;  but  when  thou  wouldst 
utter  thyself  to  thy  husband,  dearest  wife,  there  is 
doubtless  a  peculiar  fitness  of  thy  communications 
to  that  {X)int  and  phase  of  our  existence,  at  which 
they  ought  to  be  received.  However,  come  when 
they  will,  they  are  sure  to  make  sweetest  music 
with  my  heart-strings. 

146 


Blessedest,    what   an   ugly   day   is   this!  —  and 
rhere  thr»u  sittest  as  heavy  as  thy  husband's  heart. 
\nd  is  his  heart  indeed  heavy?     Why  no — it  is 
not   heaviness — not   the   heaviness,    like   a   great 
lump  of  ice,  which  I  used  to  feel  when  I  was  alone 
in  the  world  — hut  —  hut  — in  short,  dearest,  where 
thou  art  not,  there  it  is  a  sort  of  death.     A  death, 
however,  in  which  there  is  still  hope  and  assurance 
of  a  joyful  life  to  come.      Methinks,  if  my  spirit 
were  not  conscious  of  thy  spirit,  this  dreary  snow- 
-torm  would  chill  me  to  torpor;— ^ the  warmth  of 
my  fireside  would  he  quite  powerless  to  counter 
act  r.      Most  absolute  little  wife,  didst  thou  ex 
pressly   command  me   to  go   to   Father  Taylor's 
church  this  very  Sabbath?— (Dinner,  or  luncheon 
rather,  has  intervened  since  the  last  sentence) — . 
Now,  belovedest,  it  would  not  be  an  auspicious 
day  for  me  to  hear  the  aforesaid  Son  of  Thunder. 
Thou  knowest  not  how  difficult  is  thy  husband  to 
be  touched  or  moved,  unless  time,  and  circumstan 
ces,  and  his  own  inward  state,  b«;  in  a  "concatena 
tion  accordingly."     A  dreadful  thing  would  it  be, 
were  Father  Taylor  to  fail  in  awakening  a  syp    a- 
thy  from  my  spirit  to  thine.      Durl ingest,  pray     < 
me  stay  at  home  this  afternoon.     Some  sunshih 
Sunday,  when  I  am  wide  awake,  and  warm,  and 
genial,  I  will  go  and  throw  myself  oj>en  to  his 

H7 


blessed  influences;  but  now,  there  is  but  one  thing 
(thou  being  absent)  which  I  feel  anywise  inclined 
to  do— and  that  is,  to  go  to  sleep.  May  I  go  tc 
sleep,  belovedest?  Think  what  sweet  dreams  oi 
thee  may  visit  me — think  how  I  shall  escape  this 
snow-storm — think  how  my  heavy  mood  will 
change,  as  the  mood  of  mind  almost  always  does, 
during  the  interval  that  withdraws  me  from  the 
external  world.  Yes;  thou  bid^t  me  sleep.  Sleep 
rhou  too,  my  beloved— let  us  pass  at  one  and  the 
same  moment  mto  that  misty  region,  and  embrace 
each  other  there. 

Well,  dearest,  I  have  slept;  but  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  has  been  naughty  —  she  would  not  be 
dreamed  about.  And  now  that  I  am  awake  again, 
here  are  the  same  snow-flakes  in  the  air,  that  were 
descending  when  I  went  to  sleep.  Would  that 
there  were  an  art  of  making  sunshine!  Knowe'st 
thou  any  such  art?  Truly  thou  dost,  my  blesscd- 
est,  and  hast  often  thrown  a  heavenly  sunshine 
around  thy  husband's  spirit,  when  all  things  else 
were  full  of  gloom.  What  a  woe — what  a  cloud  _ 
it  is,  to  be  away  from  thee !  How  would  my 
Dove  like  to  have  her  husband  continually  with 
her,  twelve  or  fourteen  months  out  of  the  next 
twenty*?  Would  not  that  be  real  happiness*? — 

in  such  long  communion,  should  we  not  feel  as  it | 

148 


separation  were  a  dream,  something  that  nev^r 
had  been  a  reality,  nor  ever  could  be"?  Yes;  but- 
for  in  all  earthly  happiness  there  is  a  but  —  but, 
during  those  twenty  months,  there  would  be  two 
intervals  of  three  months  each,  when  thy  husband 
would  be  five  hundred  miles  away  —  as  tar  away 
as  Wellington.  That  would  be  terrible.  Would 
not  Sophie  Hawthorne  fight  against  it? — would 
not  the  Dove  fold  her  wings,  not  in  the  quietude 
of  bliss,  but  of  despair?  Do  not  be  frightened, 
dearest  —  nor  rejoiced  either — for  the  thing  will 
not  be.  It  might  be,  if  I  chose;  but  on  multitu 
dinous  accounts,  my  present  situation  seems  pref 
erable;  and  I  do  pray,  that,  in  one  year  more,  I 
may  find  some  way  of  escaping  from  this  unblest 
Custom-House ;  for  it  is  a  very  grievous  thraldom. 
I  do  detest  all  offices— all,  at  least,  that  are  held 
on  a  political  tenure.  And  I  want  nothing  to  do 
with  politicians — they  are  not  men;  they  cease 
to  be  men,  in  becoming  politicians.  Their  hearts 
wither  away,  and  die  out  of  their  bodies.  Their 
consciences  are  turned  to  India-rubber — or  to 
some  substance  as  black  a*  that,  and  which  will 
stretch  as  much.  One  thing,  if  no  more,  I  have 
gained  by  my  Custom-House  experience — to  know 
a  politician.  It  is  a  knowledge  which  no  previous 
thought,  or  power  of  sympathy,  could  have  taught 

149 


me,  because  the  animal,  or  the  machine  rather,  is 
not  in  nature. 

Oh  my  darl ingest  wife,  thy  husband's  soul 
yearns  to  embrace  thee!  Thou  art  his  hope — his 
joy— he  desires  nothing  but  to  be  with  thee,  and 
to  toil  for  thee,  and  to  make  thee  a  happy  wife, 
wherein  would  consist  his  own  heavenliest  happi 
ness.  Dost  thou  love  him?  Yes;  he  knoweth  it. 
God  bless  thee,  most  beloved. 

THINE  OWNEST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


150 


TO  MISS  PEA  BODY 


(  Fragment  only  ) 

And  now  g(xxi  night,  best,  beautiful  lest,  be- 
lovedest,  blessingest  of  wives.  Notwithstanding 
what  I  have  said  of  the  fleeting  and  unsatisfying 
bliss  of  dreams,  still,  if  thy  husband's  prayers  and 
wishes  can  bring  thee,  or  even  a  shadow  of  thee, 
into  his  sleep,  thou  or  thy  image  will  assuredly  be 
there.  Good  night,  ownest.  I  bid  thee  good 
night,  although  it  is  still  early  in  the  evening;  be 
cause  I  must  reserve  the  rest  of  the  page  to  greet 
thee  upon  in  the  morning. 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Bostin,  March  26th,  1840  —  Afternoon. 
Jciircst  ctv'/r, 

Here  is  thy  husband,  yearning  for  thee  with  his 
whole  heart  —  thou,  meanwhile,  being  fast  asleep, 
and  perhaps  hovering  around  him  in  thy  dreams. 
Very  dreary  are  the  first  few  centuries  which 
elapse  after  our  separations,  and  before  it  is  time 
to  look  forward  hopefully  to  another  meeting— 
these  are  the  "dark  ages."  And  hast  thou  been 
very  good,  my  beloved  ?  Dost  thou  dwell  in  the 
past  and  in  the  future,  so  that  the  gloomy  present 
is  quite  swallowed  up  in  sunshine?  Do  so,  mine 
ownest,  for  the  sake  of  thy  husband,  whose  desire 
it  is  to  make  thy  whole  life  as  sunny  as  the  scene 
beyond  those  high,  dark  rocks  of  the  Menaggio. 

Dearest,  my  thoughts  will  not  flow  at  all  —  they 
are  as  sluggish  as  a  stream  of  half-cold  lava.  Me- 
thinks  I  could  sleep  an  hour  or  two  —  j>erhaps  thou 
art  calling  to  me,  out  of  the  midst  of  thy  dream,  to 
come  and  join  thee  there.  I  will  take  a  book,  and 

152 


lie  down  awhile,  and  perhaps  resume  my  pen  in 
the  evening.  I  will  not  say  g(x>d  bye;  for  I  am 
coming  to  thee  now. 

March  ijth,  — Before  breakfast.— Good  morn 
ing,  most  belovedest.  I  felt  so  infinitely  stupid, 
after  my  afternoon's  nap,  that  I  could  not  possi 
bly  write  another  word;  and  it  has  required  a 
whole  night's  sleep  to  restore  me  the  moderate 
share  of  intellect  and  vivacity  that  naturally  be 
longs  to  me.  Dearest,  thou  didst  not  come  into 
my  dreams,  last  night ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  I  was 
engaged  in  assisting  the  escape  ot  Louis  XVI  and 
Marie  Antoinette  from  Paris,  during  the  French 
revolution.  And  sometimes,  by  an  unaccountable 
metamorphosis,  it  seemed  as  if  my  mother  and  sis 
ter  were  in  the  place  of  the  King  and  Queen. 
I  think  that  fairies  rule  over  our  dreams — beings 
who  have  no  true  reason  or  true  feeling,  but  mere 
fantasies  instead  of  those  endowments. 

Afternoon.  — Blessedest,  I  do  think  that  it  is  the 
d(X)m  laid  upon  me,  of  murdering  so  many  of  the 
brightest  hours  of  the  day  at  that  unblest  Custom- 
House,  that  makes  such  havoc  with  my  wits;  for 
here  I  am  again,  trying  to  write  worthily  to  my 
etherealest,  and  intellectualest,  and  feelingest,  and 
imaginative^  wife,  yet  with  a  sense  as  if  all  the 
noblest  part  of  man  had  been  left  out  of  my  com- 

153 


[xxsition  —  or  had  decayed  out  of  it,  since  my  na 
ture  was  given  to  my  own  keeping.  Sweetest 
Dove,  shouldst  thou  once  venture  within  those 
precincts,  the  atmosphere  would  immediately  be 
fatal  to  thee— -thy  wings  would  cease  to  flutter  in 
-i  moment  — scarcely  wouldst  thou  have  time  to 
nestle  into  thy  husband's  bosom,  ere  thy  pure  spirit 
would  leave  what  is  mortal  of  thee  there,  and  flit 
away  to  Heaven.  Never  comes  any  bird  of  Par 
adise  into  that  dismal  region.  A  salt,  or  even  a 
coal-ship  is  ten  million  times  preferable;  for  there 
the  sky  is  above  me,  and  the  fresh  bree/e  around 
me,  and  my  thoughts,  having  hardly  anything  to 
do  with  my  occupation,  are  as  free  as  air. 

Nevertheless,  belovedest,  thou  art  not  to  fancy 
that  the  above  paragraph  gives  thee  a  correct  idea 
of  thy  husband's  mental  and  spiritual  state;  for  he 
is  sometimes  prone  to  the  sin  of  exaggeration.  It 
is  only  once  in  a  while  that  the  image  and  desire 
of  a  better  and  happier  life  makes  him  feel  the 
iron  of  his  chain ;  for  after  all,  a  human  spirit  may 
hnd  no  insufficiency  of  food  fit  for  it,  even  in  the 
Custom-House.  And  with  such  materials  as  these, 
I  do  think,  and  feel,  and  learn  things  that  are 
worth  knowing,  and  which  I  should  not  know  un 
less  I  had  learned  them  there;  so  that  the  present 
l>ortion  of  my  life  shall  not  be  quite  left  out  of  the 


sum  of  my  real  existence.  Moreover,  I  live 
through  my  Dove's  heart  — I  live  an  intellectual 
lite  in  Sophie  Hawthorne.  Therefore  ought  those 
two  in  one  to  keep  themselves  happy  and  healthy 
in  mind  and  feelings,  inasmuch  as  they  enjoy  more 
blessed  influences  than  their  husband,  and  like 
wise  have  to  provide  happiness  and  moral  health 
tor  him. 

Very  dearest,  I  feel  a  great  deal  better  now  — 
nay,  nothing  whatever  is  the  matter.  What  a 
foolish  husband  hast  thou,  mistortunate  little 
Dove,  that  he  will  grieve  thee  with  such  a  long 
Jeremiad,  and  after  all  find  out  that  there  is  not 
the  slightest  cause  for  lamentation.  But  so  it 
must  often  be,  dearest  —  this  trouble  hast  thou  en 
tailed  upon  thyself,  by  yielding  to  become  my 
wife.  Every  cloud  that  broods  beneath  my  sky, 
or  that  I  even  fancy  is  brooding  there,  must  dim 
thy  sunshine  too.  But  here  is  no  real  cloud.  It 
is  good  for  me,  on  many  accounts,  that  my  life  has 
had  this  passage  in  it.  Thou  canst  not  think  how 
much  more  I  know  than  I  did  a  year  ago — what  a 
stronger  sense  I  have  of  |x>wer  to  act  as  a  man  among 
men  —  what  worldlv  wisdom  I  have  gained,  and 
wisdom  also  that  is  not  altogether  of  this  world. 
And  when  I  quit  this  earthy  cavern,  where  I  am 
now  buried,  nothing  will  cling  to  me  that  ought  to 


^e  left  behind.  Men  will  not  perceive,  I  trust,  by 
my  look,  or  the  tenor  of  my  thoughts  and  feelings, 
that  I  have  been  a  Custom-House  officer. 

Belovedest!  —  what  an  awful  concussion  was 
that  of  our  two  heads.  It  was  as  if  two  worlds 
had  rushed  together — as  if  the  M<xm  ( thou  art  my 
Moon,  gentlest  wife)  had  met  in  tierce  encounter 
with  the  rude,  rock-promontoried  Earth.  Dear 
est,  art  thou  sure  that  thy  delicatest  brain  has  suf 
fered  no  material  harm?  A  maiden's  heart,  they 
say,  is  often  bruised  and  broken  by  her  lover's 
cruelty;  it  was  reserved  for  naughtiest  me  to  in 
flict  those  injuries-  upon  my  mistress's  head.  .  ., 

(Portion  of  letter  missing) 

To  Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


'56 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  March  3<Dth,  1840  —  5  or  6  P.  M. 
Infinitely  belovcdest, 

Thy  Thursday's  letter  came  not  till  Saturday  - 
so  long  was  thy  faithful  lest  husband  defrauded  of 
his  rights!  Thou  mayst  imagine  how  hungry  was 
my  heart,  when  at  last  it  came.  Thy  yesterday's 
letter,  for  a  wonder,  arrived  in  its  due  season,  this 
forenoon;  and  I  could  not  refrain  from  opening  it 
immediately;  and  then  and  there,  in  that  earthy 
cavern  of  the  Custom-House,  and  surrounded  by 
all  those  brawling  slang-w  hangers,  I  held  sweet 
communion  with  my  Dove.  Dearest,  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  any  one  of  those  miserable  men  ever 
received  a  letter  which  uttered  a  single  word  of 
love  and  faith  —  which  addressed  itself  in  any 
manner  to  the  soul.  No  beautiful  and  holy 
woman's  spirit  came  to  visit  anv  of  them,  save  thy 
husband.  How  blest  is  he!  Thou  tindest  thy 
:\vay  to  him  in  all  dismal  lest  and  unloveliest 
places,  and  talkest  with  him  there,  nor  can  the 


loudest  babble  nor  rudest  clamor  shut  out  thy  gen 
tle  voice  from  his  ear.  Truly,  he  ought  not  to  be 
moan  himself  any  more,  as  in  his  last  letter,  but  to 
esteem  himself  favored  beyond  all  other  mortals; 
—but  truly  he  is  a  wayward  and  incalculable  per 
sonage,  and  will  not  be  prevailed  with  to  know  his 
own  happiness.  The  lovelier  thou  art,  mine  own- 
est,  the  more  doth  thy  unreasonable  husband  dis 
content  himself  to  be  away  from  thee,  though  thou 
continually  sendest  him  all  of  thyself  that  can  be 
breathed  into  written  words.  Oh,  I  want  thee 
with  me  forever  and  ever!  —  at  least  I  would  al 
ways  have  the  feeling,  amid  the  tumult  and  un 
suitable  associations  of  the  day,  that  the  night 
would  bring  me  to  my  home  of  peace  and  rest — to 
thee,  my  fore-ordained  wife.  Well  — be  patient, 
heart!  The  time  will  come.  Meantime,  foolish- 
est  heart,  be  thankful  for  the  much  of  happiness 
thou  already  hast. 

Dearest,  thy  husband  was  very  reprehensible, 
yesterday.  Wilt  thou  again  forgive  him?  He 
went  not  to  hear  Father  Taylor  preach.  In  truth, 
his  own  private  and  quiet  room  did  have  such 
a  charm  for  him,  after  being  mixed  and  tossed  to 
gether  with  discordant  elements  all  the  week,  that 
he  thought  his  Dove  would  grant  him  indulgence 
for  one  more  Sabbath.  Also,  he  fancied  himself 

158 


unfit  to  £0  out,  on  account  of  a  cold;  though,  as 
the  disease  has  quite  disappeared  to-day,  I  am 
afraid  he  conjured  it  up  to  serve  his  naughty  pur- 
jx)se.  But.  indeed,  dearest,  I  feel  somewhat  afraid 
to  hear  this  divine  Father  Taylor,  lest  my  sympa 
thy  with  thv  admiration  of  him  should  be  colder 
and  feebler  than  thou  lookcst  for.  Belovedest 
wife,  our  souls  are  in  happiest  unison;  but  we 
must  not  disquiet  ourselves  it  every  tone  be  not 
re-echoed  from  one  to  the  other — if  every  slightest 
shade  be  not  reflected  in  the  alternate  mirror.  Our 
broad  and  general  sympathy  is  enough  to  secure 
our  bliss  without  our  following  it  into  minute  de 
tails.  Wilt  thou  promise  not  to  be  troubled, 
should  thy  husband  be  unable  to  appreciate  the 
excellence  of  Father  Taylor?  Promise  me  this; 
and  at  some  auspicious  hour,  which  I  trust  will 
soon  arrive.  Father  Taylor  shall  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  make  music  with  my  soul.  But  I  fore 
warn  thee,  sweetest  Dove,  that  thy  husband  is  a 
most  unmalleahlc  man;— thou  art  not  to  suppose, 
because  his  spirit  answers  to  every  touch  of  thine, 
that  therefore  every  breeze,  or  even  every  whirl 
wind,  can  upturn  him  from  his  depths.  Well, 
dearest,  I  have  said  my  say,  on  this  matter. 

What  a  rain  is  this,  my  jxx)r  little  Dove!     Yet 
as  the  wind  comes  from  some  other  quarter  than 

159 


the  East,  I  tru^t  that  thou  hast  found  it  genial, 
(rood  bye,  belovedest,  till  tomorrow  evening. 
Meantime,  love  me,  and  dream  of  me. 

March  31  st.—  Evening.  —  Best  Wife,  it  is 
scarcely  datk  yet ;  hut  thy  husband  has  just  lighted 
his  lamps,  and  sits  down  to  talk  to  thee.  Would 
that  he  could  hear  an  answer  in  thine  own  sweet 
voice;  for  his  spirit  needs  to  be  cheered  by  that 
dearest  of  all  harmonies,  after  a  long,  listless, 
weary  day.  Just  at  this  moment,  it  does  seem  as 
if  life  could  not  go  on  without  it.  What  is  to  be 
done? 

Dearest,  if  Eli'/abeth  Howe  is  to  be  with  you 
on  Saturday,  it  would  be  quite  a  calamity  to  thee 
and  thv  household,  for  me  to  come  at  the  same 
time.  Now  will  Sophie  Hawthorne  complain, 
and  the  Dove's  eyes  be  suffused,  at  my  supposing 
that  their  husband's  visit  could  be  a  calamity  at 
any  time.  Well,  at  least,  we  should  be  obliged  to 
give  up  many  hours  of  happiness,  and  it  would  not 
even  be  certain  that  I  could  have  the  privilege  of 
seeing  mine  own  wife  in  private,  at  all.  Where 
fore,  considering  these  things,  I  have  resolved, 
and  do  hereby  make  it  a  decree  of  fate,  that  my 
present  widowhood  shall  continue  one  week 
longer.  And  my  sweetest  Dove — yes,  and  naught- 

i6g 


iest  Sophie  Hawthorne  too — will  both  concur  in 
the  fitness  of  this  resolution,  and  will  help  me  to 
execute  it  with  what  of  resignation  is  attainable 
by  mortal  man,  by  writing  me  a  letter  full  of 
strength  and  comfort.  And  I,  infinitely  dear  wife, 
will  write  to  thee  again;  s'o  that,  though  my 
earthly  part  will  not  be  with  thee  on  Saturday^ 
yet  thou  shalt  have  my  heart  and  soul  in  a 
letter.  Will  not  this  be  right,  and  for  the  best? 
"Yes,  dearest  husband,'1  saith  my  meekest  little 
Dove;  and  Sophie  Hawthorne  cannot  gainsay 
her. 

Mine  unspeakably  ownest,  dost  thou  love  me  a 
million  of  times  as  much  as  thou  didst  a  week  ago? 
As  for  me,  my  heart  grows  deeper  and  wider  every 
moment,  and  still  thou  fillest  it  in  all  its  depths 
and  boundlessness.  Wilt  thou  never  be  satisfied 
with  making  me  love  thee?  To  what  use  canst 
thou  put  so  much  love  as  thou  continually  receiv- 
est  from  me?  Dost  thou  hoard  it  up,  as  misers 
do  their  treasure? 

THINE  OWN  BU-SSEDEST  HUSBAND. 

April  ist.  Before  breakfast.— Good  morning, 
entirely  belovedest. 


Sophie  Hawthorne,  I  have  enclosed  something 
for  thee  in  this  letter.  If  thou  rindest  it  not,  then 
tell  me  what  thou  art. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass* 


162 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  April  3d,  1840.  —  Evening. 
Rlessedest  wife,  tin-  husband  has  been  busy  all 
day,  from  early  breakfast-time  to  late  in  the  after- 
noon:  and  old  Fathei  Time  has  gone  onward 
somewhat  less  heavily,  than  is  his  wont  when  I 
am  imprisoned  within  the  walls  of  the  Custom- 
House.  It  has  been  a  brisk,  bree'/y  day,  as  thou 
knowest  —  an  effervescent  atmosphere;  and  I  have 
enjoyed  it  in  all  its  freshness,  breathing  air  which 
had  not  been  breathed  in  advance  by  the  hundred 
thousand  pairs  of  lungs  which  have  common  and 
indivisible  property  in  the  atmosphere  of  this 
great  city.  —  My  breath  had  never  belonged  to 
anybody  but  me.  It  came  fresh  from  the  wilder 
ness  of  ocean.  My  Dove  ought  to  have  shared  it 
with  me,  and  so  have  made  it  infinitely  sweeter  — 
save  her,  I  would  wish  to  have  an  atmosphere  all 
to  myself.  And,  dearest,  it  was  exhilarating  to 
see  the  vessels,  how  they  bounded  over  the  waves, 
v  while  a  sheet  of  foam  broke  out  around  them.  I 

163 


found  a  good  deal  of  enjoyment,  too,  in  the  busy 
scene  around  me ;  for  several  vessels  were  disgorg 
ing  themselves  (what  an  unseemly  figure  is  this — 
"disgorge,"  quotha,  as  if  the  vessels  were  sick  at 
their  stomachs)  on  the  wharf;  and  everybody 
seemed  to  be  working  with  might  and  main.  It 
pleased  thy  husband  to  think  that  he  also  had  a 
part  to  act  in  the  material  and  tangible  business  of 
this  life,  and  that  a  part  of  all  this  industry  could 
not  have  gone  on  without  his  presence.  Never 
theless,  my  belovedest,  pride  not  thyself  too  much 
on  thy  husband's  activity  and  utilitarianism;  he 
is  naturally  an  idler,  and  doubtless  will  soon  be  t 
j>estering  thee  with  bewailments  at  being  com 
pelled  to  earn  his  bread  by  taking  some  little 
share  in  the  toils  of  mortal  man. 

Most  beloved,  when  I  went  to  the  Custom- 
House,  at  one  o'clock,  Colonel  Hall  held  up  a  let 
ter,  turning  the  seal  towards  me;  and  he  seemed 
to  be  quite  as  well  aware  as  myself,  that  the  long- 
legged  little  fowl  impressed  thereon  was  a  messen 
ger  from  my  Dove.  And  so,  naughtiest,  thou  art 
not  patient.  Well;  it  will  do  no  good  to  scold 
thee.  I  know  Sophie  Hawthorne  of  old— yea,  of 
very  old  time  do  I  know  her ;  or  rather,  of  very  old 
eternity.  There  was  an  image  of  such  a  being, 
deep  within  my  soul,  before  we  met  in  this  dim 

164 


world;  and  therefore  nothing  that  she  does,  or 
says,  or  thinks,  or  feels,  ever  surprises  me.  Her 
naughtiness  is  as  familiar  to  me  as  if  it  were  m\ 
own.  But  dearest,  do  be  patient;  because  thou 
seest  that  the  busy  days  are  coming  again;  and 
how  is  thy  husband  to  bear  his  toil  lightsomely,  if 
he  knows  that  thou  art  impatient  and  disquieted. 
By  and  bye,  as  soon  as  God  will  open  a  way  to  us, 
we  will  help  one  another  bear  the  burthen  of  the 
dfT,  whatever  it  may  be. 

My  little  Dove,  the  excdleat  Coloud  Hal!, 
conceiving,  I  suppose,  that  our  correspondence 
must  necessarily  involve  a  great  expenditure  of 
paper,  has  imparted  to  thy  husband  a  quire  or  two 
of  superfine  gilt-edged,  which  he  brought  from 
Congress.  The  sheet  on  which  I  am  now  writing 
is  a  specimen;  and  he  charged  me  to  give  thee  a 
portion  of  it,  which  I  promised  to  do — but 
whether  I  shall  convey  it  to  thee  in  the  mass,  or 
sheet  by  sheet,  after  spoiling  it  with  my  uncouth 
scribble,  is  yet  undetermined.  Which  wouldst 
thou  prefer*?  Likewise  three  sticks  of  sealing- 
[wax]  did  the  good  Colonel  bestow;  but  unfortu 
nately  it  is  all  red.  Yet  I  think  it  proper  enough 
that  a  gentleman  should  seal  all  his  letters  with 
red  sealing-wax;  though  it  is  sweet  and  graceful 
in  my  Dove  to  use  fancy-colored.  Dearest,  the 

165 


paper  thou  shalt  have,  every  sheet  of  it,  sooner  or 
later;  and  only  that  it  is  so  burthcnsomc  to  thy 
foolish  husband  to  carry  anything  in  his  hand,  I 
would  bring  it  to  thee.  Meantime,  till  I  hit  upon 
some  other  method,  I  will  send  it  sheet  by  sheet. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass, 


166 


TO  MISS  PEA  BODY 


Custom-Houff,  April  6th,  1840.    5  P.M. 

How  long  it  is.  belovedest,  since  I  have  written 
Thee  a  letter  from  this  darksome  region.  Never 
did  I  write  thee  a  word  from  hence  that  was  worth 
reading,  nor  shall  I  now;  hut  perhaps  thou 
wouldst  get  no  word  at  all,  these  two  or  three 
days,  unless  I  write  it  here.  This  evening,  dear-  . 
est,  I  am  to  have  a  visitor  —the  illustrious  Colonel 
Hall  himself  :  and  I  have  even  promised  him  a  bed 
on  my  parlor  floor  --so  that,  as  thou  seest,  the 
duties  of  hospitality  will  keep  me  from  commu 
nion  with  the  best  little  wife  in  the  world. 

Hearts  never  do  understand  the  mystery  of  sep 
aration  —  that  is  the  business  of  the  head.  My 
sweetest,  dearest,  purest,  holiest,  noblest,  faithful- 
lest  wife,  dost  thou  know  what  a  loving  husband 
thou  hastY  Dost  thou  love  him  most  immensely? 
—  beyond  conception,  and  dost  thou  feel,  as  he 

167 


does,  that  even    new    throb  oi"  lovr  is  worth  all 
other  happiness  in  the  world*? 

Dearest,  my  soul  drank  thy  letter  this  forenoon, 
and  has  been  conscious  of  it  ever  since,  in  the 
midst  of  business  and  noise  anil  all  sorts  of  weari 
some  babble.  How  dreamlike  it  makes  all  my 
external  life,  this  continual  thought  and  deepest, 
inmostest  musing  upon  thee!  I  live  only  within 
myself;  for  thou  art  always  there.  Thou  makest 
me  a  disembodied  spirit;  and  with  the  eve  of  a 
spirit,  I  look  on  all  worldly  things  — and  this  it  |  is  | 
that  separates  thy  husband  from  those  who  seem 
to  be  his  fellows — therefore  is  he  "among  them, 
but  not  of  them."  Thou  art  transfused  into  his 
heart,  and  spread  all  round  about  it;  and  it  is  only 
once  in  a  while  that  he  himself  is  even  imperfectly 
conscious  of  what  a  miracle  has  been  wrought 
upon  him. 

Well,  dearest,  were  ever  such  words  as  these 
written  in  a  Custom-House  before?  Oh,  and 
what  a  mighty  heave  my  heart  has  given,  this  very 
moment!  Thou  art  most  assuredly  thinking  of 
me  now,  wife  of  my  inmost  bosom.  Never  did  I 
know  what  love  was  before  —  I  did  not  even  know 
it  when  I  began  this  letter.  Ah,  but  I  ought  not 
to  say  that;  it  would  make  me  sad  to  believe  that 

168 


I  had  not  always  loved  thee.  Farewell,  now, 
dearest.  Be  quiet,  mv  Dove;  lest  my  heart  he 
made  to  flutter  by  the  fluttering  of  thy  wings. 

April  yth.  6  P.M.  My  tenderest  Dove,  hast 
thou  lived  through  the  }x>lar  winter  of  to-day;  for 
it  does  appear  to  me  to  have  been  the  most  uncom 
fortable  day  that  ever  was  inflicted  on  poor  mor 
tals.  Thy  husband  has  had  to  face  it  in  all  its 
terrors;  and  the  cold  has  penetrated  through  his 
cloak,  through  his  beaver-cloth  coat  and  vest,  and 
was  neutralised  nowhere  but  in  the  region  round 
about  his  heart  —  and  that  it  did  not  chill  him  even 
there,  he  owes  to  thee.  I  know  not  whether  I 
should  not  have  jumped  overboard  in  despair  to 
day,  if  I  had  not  sustained  mv  spirit  by  the 
thought  of  thee,  most  beloved  wife;  for,  besides 
the  bleak,  unkindlv  air,  I  have  been  plagued  by 
two  sets  of  coal-shovellers  at  the  same  time,  and 
have  had  to  keep  two  separate  tallies  simultane 
ously.  But,  dearest,  I  was  conscious  that  all  this 
was  merely  a  vision  and  a  phantasy,  and  that,  in 
reality,  I  was  not  halt-frozen  by  the  bitter  blast, 
nor  plagued  to  death  by  those  grimy  coal-heavers, 
but  that  I  was  basking  quietly  in  the  sunshine  of 
eternity,  with  mine  own  Dove.  Any  sort  of 
bodily  and  earthly  torment  may  serve  to  make  us 

169 


sensible  that  we  have  a  soul  that  is  not  within  th< 
jurisdiction  of  such  shadowy  demons — it  separates 
the  immortal  within  us  from  the  mortal.  But  the 
wind  has  blown  my  brain  into  such  contusion  that 
I  cannot  philosophise  now. 

Blessingest  wife,  what  a  habit  I  have  contracted 
of  late,  of  telling  thee  all  my  grievances  and  an 
noyances,  as  if  such  trifles  were  worth  telling  — or 
as  if,  supposing  them  to  be  so,  they  would  be  the 
most  agreeable  gossip  in  the  world  to  thee.  Thou 
makest  me  behave  like  a  child,  naughtiest.  Why 
dost  thou  not  frown  at  my  nonsensical  complaints, 
and  utterly  refuse  thy  sympathy?  But  I  speak  to 
thee  of  the  miseries  of  a  cold  day,  and  blustering  « 
wind,  and  intractable  coal-shovellers,  with  just 
the  same  certainty  that  thou  wilt  listen  lovingly 
and  sympathisingly,  as  if  I  were  speaking  of  the 
momentous  and  permanent  concerns  of  life. 

Dearest,    .    .    .     (portion  of. letter  missing)     . 

.  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  come  on  Friday  — 
there  is  hardly  any  likelihood  of  it;  for  one  of  the 
Measurers  is  indis|X)sed,  which  throws  additional 
work  on  the  efficient  members  of  our  honorable 
body.  But  there  is  no  expressing  how  I  do  yearn 
for  thee!  The  strength  of  the  feeling  seems  to 
make  my  words  cold  and  tame.  Dearest,  this  is 
but  a  poor  epistle,  yet  is  written  in  very  great 

1/0 


love  and  worship  of  thee — so,  for  the  writer's 
sake,  thou  wilt  receive  it  into  thy  heart  of  hearts. 
God  keep  thee — and  me  also  for  thy  sake. 

THINE  OWNEST. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


171 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  April  15th,  1840.  —  Afternoon. 
Belovedest  —  since  writing  this  word,  I  have 
made  a  considerable  pause;  for,  dearest,  my  mind 
has  no  activity  to-day.  I  would  fain  sit  still,  and 
let  thoughts,  feelings,  and  images  of  thee,  pass  he- 
fore  me  and  through  me,  without  my  putting  them 
into  words,  or  taking  any  other  trouble  about  the 
matter.  It  must  be  that  thou  dost  not  especially 
and  exceedingly  need  a  letter  from  me;  else  I 
should  feel  an  impulse  and  necessity  to  write.  I  do 
wish,  most  beloved  wife;  that  there  were  some  other 
method  of  communing  with  thee  at  a  distance:  for 
really  this  is  not  a  natural  one  to  thy  husband.  In 
truth,  I  never  use  words,  either  with  the  tongiu 
or  pen,  when  J  can  possibly  express  myself  in  an) 
other  way;  —  and  how  much,  dearest,  may  be  ex 
pressed  without  the  utterance  of  a  word  !  Is  there 
not  a  volume  in  many  of  our  glances?  —  even  in  a 

172 


pressure  of  the  hand?  And  when  I  write  to  thee, 
.1  do  hut  painfully  endeavor  to  shadow  into  words 
what  has  already  heen  expressed  in  those  realities. 
Tn  heaven,  I  am  very  sure,  there  will  he  no  occa 
sion  tor  words;  —  our  minds  will  enter  into  each 
other,  and  silently  possess  themselves  of  their  nat 
ural  riches.  Even  in  this  world,  I  think,  such  a 
process  is  not  altogether  impossihle  -  we  ourselves 
have  experienced  it-  hut  words  come  like  an 
earthy  wall  hetwixt  us.  Then  our  minds  are  com 
pelled  to  stand  apart,  and  make  signals  of  our 
meaning,  instead  of  rushing  into  one  another,  and 
holding  converse  in  an  infinite  and  eternal  lan 
guage.  Oh,  dearest,  have  fnot|  the  moments  of 
our  oneness  heen  those  in  which  we  were  most  si 
lent?  It  is  our  instinct  to  he  silent  then,  because 
words  could  not  adequate!}  express  the  perfect. 
concord  of  our  hearts,  and  therefore  would  in 
fringe  upon  it.  Well,  ownest,  good  bye  till  to 
morrow,  when  }>erhaps  thy  husband  will  feel  a 
necessity  to  use  even  such  a  wretched  medium  as 
words,  to  tell  thee  how  he  loves  thee.  No  words 
can  tell  it  now. 

April  i  ^th.  Afternoon.  — Most  dear  wife, 
never  was  thy  husband  gladder  to  receive  a  letter 
from  thee  than  to-day.  And  so  thou  didst  per 
ceive  that  I  was  rather  out  of  spirits  on  Mon- 

173 


day.  Foolish  and  faithless  husband  that  I  was, 
I  supposed  that  thou  wouldst  not  take  any  notice 
of  it;  but  the  simple  fact  was,  that  I  did  not  feel 
quite  so  well  as  usual;  and  said  nothing  about  it 
to  thee,  because  I  knew  thou  wouldst  desire  me  to 
put  off  my  departure,  which  (for  such  a  trirle )  I 
felt  it  not  right  to  do --and  likewise,  because  my 
Dove  would  have  been  naughty,  and  so  perhaps 
have  made  herself  ten  times  as  ill  as  her  husband. 
Dearest,  I  am  quite  well  now  —  only  very  hungry; 
for  I  have  thought  tit  to  eat  very  little  iur  u/o 
days  past;  and  I  think  starvation  is  a  remedy  for 
almost  all  physical  evils.  You  will  love  Colonel 
Hall,  when  I  tell  you  that  he  has  not  let  me  do  a 
.  .  (few  words  missing)  .  .  and  even  to-day 
he  has  sent  me  home  to  my  room,  although  I  as 
sured  him  that  I  was  perfectly  able  to  work. 
Now,  dearest,  if  thou  givest  thyself  any  trouble 
and  torment  about  this  past  indisposition  of  mine, 
I  shall  never  dare  to  tell  thee  about  my  future  in- 
commodities;  but  if  I  were  sure  thou  wouldst  esti 
mate  them  at  no  more  than  they  are  worth,  thou 
shouldst  know  them  all,  even  to  the  slightest  prick 
of  my  finger.  It  is  my  impulse  to  complain  to  thee 
in  all  griefs,  great  and  small ;  and  I  will  not  check 
that  impulse,  if  thou  wilt  sympathise  reasonably, 

174 


as  well  as  most  lovingly.  And  now,  ownest  wife, 
believe  that  thy  husband  is  well;  —  better,  I  tear, 
than  thou,  who  art  tired  to  death,  and  hast  even 
had  the  headache.  Naughtiest,  dost  thou  think 
that  all  the  busts  in  the  world,  and  all  the  medal 
lions  and  other  forms  of  sculpture,  would  be  worth 
creating  at  the  expence  of  such  weariness  and 
headaches  to  thee.  I  would  rather  that  thy  art 
should  be  annihilated,  than  that  thou  shouldst  al 
ways  pay  this  price  for  its  exercise.  But  perhaps, 
when  thou  hast  my  bosom  to  repose  upon,  thou 
wilt  no  longer  feel  such  overwhelming  weariness. 
I  am  given  thee  to  repose  upon,  that  so  my  most 
tender  and  sensitivest  little  Dove  max  be  able  to 
do  great  works. 

And  dearest,  I  do  by  no  means  undervalue  tin 
works,  though  I  cannot  estimate  all  thou  hast  ever 
done  at  the  price  of  a  single  throb  of  anguish  to 
thy  belovedest  head.  But  thou  has  achieved 
mighty  things.  Thou  hast  called  up  a  face  which 
was  hidden  in  the  grave  — hast  re-created  it,  after 
it  was  resolved  to  dust  — and  so  hast  snatched  from 
Death  his  victory.  I  wonder  at  thee,  my  beloved. 
Thou  art  a  miracle  thyself,  and  workest  miracles. 
I  would  not  have  believed  it  {xjssible  to  do  what 
thou  hast  done— to  restore  the  lineaments  of  the 

'75 


dead  so  perfectly  that  even  she  who  loved  him  so 
well  can  require  nothing  more;— and  this  too, 
when  thon  hadst  hardly  known  his  living  face. 
Thou  couldst  not  have  done  it,  unless  God  had 
helped  thee.  This  surely  was  inspiration,  and  of 
the  holiest  kind,  and  for  one  of  the  holiest  pur 
poses. 

Dearest,  I  shall  long  to  see  thee  exceedingly 
next  Saturday;  hut  having  been  absent  from  duty 
for  two  or  three  days  past  it  will  not  be  right  for 
me  to  ask  any  more  time  so  soon.  Dost  thou  think 
it  would ? 

How  naughty  was  thy  husband  to  waste  the 
first  page  of  this  letter  in  declaiming  against  the 
blessed  art  of  writing!  I  do  not  see  how  1  could 
live  without  i-t;  — thy  letters  are  my  heart's  fcxni; 
and  oftentimes  my  heart  absolute!}  insists  upon 
pouring  itself  out  on  paper,  tor  thy  perusal.  In 
truth,  if  the  heart  would  do  all  the  work,  I  should 
probably  write  to  thee  the  whole  time  of  my  ab 
sence;  but  thou  knowest  that  the  co-operation  of 
the  hand  and  head  are  indispensable;  and  they, 
not  being  able  to  comprehend  the  infinite  necessity 
of  the  heart's  finding  utterance,  are  sometimes 
sluggish. 

April  lyth.  —  Before  breakfast.  —  Ownest,  I  am 
perfectly  well  this  morning.  Dost  thou  love  me? 

176 


Dearest,  expect  not  another  letter  till  Tuesday 
Is  thy  weariness  quite  gone? 

THINE  OWNFST,  OWNERT  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


177 


TO  MISS  PKABODY 


Boston,  April  19th,    1840.  —  Forenoon. 

Dearest,  there  came  no  letter  from  thee  yester 
day;  and  I  have  been  a  little  disquieted  with  fears 
that  thou  art  not  well  and  art  naughty  enough  to 
conceal  it  from  thy  husband.  But  this  is  a  mis 
demeanor  of  which  my  Dove  ought  not  to  be 
lightly  suspected.  Or  perhaps,  ownest  wife,  thou 
didst  imagine  that  I  might  mean  to  surprise  thee 
by  a  visit,  last  evening,  and  therefore,  instead  of 
writing,  didst  hope  to  commune  with  me  in  living 
words.  Best  belovedest,  if  I  could  have  come,  I 
would  have  given  thee  notice  beforehand;  for  I 
love  not  surprises,  even  joyful  ones  —  or  at  least, 
I  would  rather  that  joy  should  come  quietly,  and 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  warning  us  of  its  ap 
proach  by  casting  a  placid  gleam  before  it.  Mine 
own  wife,  art  thou  very  well?  Thy  husband  is 
so,  only  love-sick—  a  disease  only  to  be  cured  by 
fhe  pressure  of  a  certain  heart  to  his  own  heart. 

Belovedest,  what  a  beautiful  day  was  yester- 

,7s 


(lay.  Wert  rhon  abroad  in  the  sky  and  air? 
Thy  husband's  spirit  did  rebel  against  being  con 
fined  in  his  darksome  dungeon,  at  the  Custom- 
House;  it  seemed  a  sin  —  a  murder  of  the  joyful 
young  day  —  a  quenching  of  the  sunshine.  Never 
theless,  there  he  was  kept  a  prisoner,  —  till  it  was 
too  late  to  fling  himself  on  a  gentle  wind  and  be 
blown  away  into  the  country.  I  foresee,  dearest, 
that  thou  wilt,  now  that  the  pleasant  days  of  May 
and  .Tune  are  coming,  be  tormented  quite  beyond 
thine  infinite  patience,  with  my  groans  and  lam 
entations  at  being  compelled  to  lose  so  much  of 
life's  scant}  summertime.  But  thou  must  enjoy 
for  both  of  us.  Thou  must  listen  to  the  notes  of 
the  birds,  because  the  rumbling  of  wheels  will  be 
always  in  my  ears — thou  must  fill  thyself  with  the 
fragrance  of  wild  flowers,  because  I  must  breathe 
in  the  dust  of  the  city  —  thy  spirit  must  enjoy  a 
double  share  of  freedom,  because  thy  husband  is 
doomed  to  be  a  captive.  It  is  thine  office  now, 
most  sweet  wife,  to  make  all  the  additions  that 
may  be  made  to  our  common  stock  of  enjoyment. 
By  and  bye,  there  shall  not  be  so  heavy  burthen 
imj)osed  u}x>n  thee.  When  I  shall  be  again  free, 
I  will  enjoy  all  things  with  the  fresh  simplicity  of 
a  child  of  five  years  old;  thou  shalt  find  thine  hus 
band  grown  young  again,  made  over  all  anew  — he 


will  go  forth  and  stand  in  a  summer  shower,  and 
all  the  worldly  dust  that  has  collected  on  him 
shall  be  washed  away  at  once.  Then,  dearest, 
whenever  thou  art  aweary,  thou  shalt  lie  down 
upon  his  heart  as  upon  a  hank  of  fresh  Rowers. 

Nearly  6 — P.M.  Thy  husband  went  out  to 
walk,  dearest,  about  an  hour  ago,  and  found  it 
very  pleasant,  though  there  was  a  somewhat  cool 
wind.  I  went  round  and  across  the  common,  and 
stood  on  the  highest  point  of  it,  whence  I  could 
see  miles  and  miles  into  the  country.  Blessed  be 
God  for  this  green  tract,  and  the  view  which  it 
affords;  whereby  we  poor  citi/ens  may  be  [Hit  in 
mind,  sometimes,  that  all  God's  earth  is  not  com 
posed  of  brick  blocks  of  houses,  and  of  stone  or 
wooden  pavements.  Blessed  be  God  for  the  sky 
too;  though  the  smoke  of  the  city  may  some 
what  change  its  aspect  — but  still  it  is  better  than 
it  each  street  were  covered  over  with  a  root.  There 
were  a  good  many  people  walking  on  the  mall, 
mechanicks  apparently  and  shopkeepers'  clerks, 
with  their  v'.ves  ::^d  sweethearts;  and  boys  were 
rolling  on  the  grass — and  thy  husband  would  have 
liked  to  lie  down  and  roll  too.  YVouldst  thou  not 
have  been  ashamed  of  him1?  And,  Oh,  dearest,  thou 
shouldst  have  been  there,  to  help  me  to  enjoy  the 
green  grass,  and  the  far-off  hills  and  fields — to 

180 


teach  me  how  to  enjoy  them,  for  when  I  view  Na 
ture  without  thee,  I  feel  that  I  lack  a  sense.  When 
we  are  together,  thy  whole*  mind  and  fancy,  as 
well  as  thy  whole  heart,  is  mine;  so  that  all  thy 
impressions  from  earth,  sea,  and  sky,  are  added  to 
all  mine.  How  necessary  hast  thou  made  thyself 
to  thy  husband,  my  little  Dove!  When  he  is 
wear)  and  out  of  spirits,  his  heart  yearneth  for 
thee ;  and  when  he  is  among  pleasant  scenes,  he 
re<juireth  thee  so  much  the  more. 

My  dearest,  why  didst  thou  not  write  to  me, 
yesterday?  It  were  always  advisable,  methinks, 
to  arrange  matters  so  that  a  letter  may  be  sent  on 
each  Saturday,  when  I  am  not  coming  home;  be 
cause  Sunday  leaves  me  tree  to  muse  upon  thee, 
and  to  imagine  the  state  and  circumstances  in 
which  thou  art  — and  the  present  Sunday  I  have 
been  troi  bled  with  fancies  that  thou  art  ill  of  body 
or  ill  at  ease  in  mind.  Do  not  thou  have  any  such 
foolish  fancies  about  me,  mine  ownest.  Oh,  how 
we  find,  at  every  moment  of  our  lives,  that  we 
ought  always  to  be  together!  Then  there  would 
be  none  of  these  needless  hcartquakes;  but  now 
how  can  they  be  avoided,  when  we  mutually  feel 
that  one-half  our  being  is  wandering  away  by  it 
self,  without  the  guidance  and  guard  of  the  other 
half!  Well;  it  will  not  lie  alwas  so.  Doubt- 


less,  (?od  has  planned  how  to  make  us  happy;  but 
thy  husband,  being  of  a  rebellious  and  distrustful 
nature,  cannot  help  wishing  sometimes  that  our 
Father  would  let  him  into  His  plans. 


182 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  April  2i8t,  1840.  —  Custom-House. 
I  do  trust,  my  dearest,  that  thou  hast  been  en 
joying  this  bright  day  tor  both  of  us;  tor  thy  hus 
band  has  spent  it  in  his  dungeon  —  and  the  only 
ray  of  light  that  broke  upon  him,  was  when  he 
opened  thy  letter.  Belovedest,  I  have  folded  it 
to  my  heart,  and  ever  and  anon  it  sends  a  thrill 
through  me;  for  thou  hast  steeped  it  with  thy  love 
-it  seems  as  if  thy  head  were  leaning  against  my 
breast.  I  long  to  get  home,  that  I  may  read  it 
again  and  again;  for  in  this  uncongenial  region,  I 
can  but  half  comprehend  it  —  at  least,  I  feel  that 
there  is  a  richness  and  sweetness  in  it,  too  sacred 
to  be  enjoyed,  save.  in  privacy.  Dearest  wife,  thy 
poor  husband  is  sometimes  driven  to  wish  that 
thou  and  he  could  mount  upon  a  cloud  (as  we 
used  to  fancy  in  those  heavenly  walks  of  ours)  and 
be  borne  quite  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  all  the 
world;  —  then,  at  last,  our  souls  might  melt  into 
each  other;  but  now,  all  the  people  in  the  world 

183 


seem  to  come  between  us.  How  happy  were 
Adam  and  Eve!  There  was  no  third  person  to 
come  between  them,  and  all  the  infinity  around 
them  only  served  to  press  their  hearts  closer  to 
gether.  We  love  |  one  |  another  as  well  as  they: 
but  there  is  no  silent  and  lovely  garden  of  Eden 
for  us.  Mine  own,  wilt  thou  sail  away  with  me 
to  discover  some  summer  island?  —  dost  thou  not 
think  that  God  has  reserved  one  for  us,  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  the  world?  Ah,  foolish  husband 
that  I  am,  to  raise  a  question  of  it,  when  we  have 
found  such  an  Eden,  such  an  island  sacred  to  us 
two,  whenever,  whether  in  Mrs.  Ouincy's  boudoir, 
or  anywhere  else,  we  have  been  clasped  in  one  an 
other's  arms!  That  holy  circle  shuts  out  all  the 
world — then  we  are  the  Adam  and  Eve  of  a  virgin 
earth.  Now  good-bye  dearest ;  for  voices  are  bab 
bling  around  me,  and  I  should  not  wonder  it  thou 
wert  to  hear  the  echo  of  them,  while  thou  readest 
this  letter. 

April  22d  — 6  o'clock  P.M.  To-day,  dearest. 
I  have  been  measuring  salt,  on  Ixmg-Wharf ;  and 
though  considerably  weary,  I  feel  better  satisfied 
than  if  I  had  been  murdering  the  blessed  day  at 
the  Custom-House.  Mine  own  wife,  how  very 
good  wast  thou,  to  take  me  with  thee  on  that  sweet 
walk,  last  Monday !  And  how  kind-hearted  was 


that  sensible  old  stump!  Thou  enquires!  whether 
I  ever  heard  a  stump  speak  before.  No,  indeed; 
but  "stump-speeches"  (as  thou  mayst  learn  in 
the  newspapers)  are  very  common  in  the  western 
country.  Belovedest,  I  have  met  with  an  im 
mense  misfortune.  Dost  thou  sympathise  from 
the  bottom  of  thy  heart?  Wouldst  thou  take  it 
upon  thyself,  if  possible?  Yea;  I  know  thou 
wouldst,  even  without  asking  the  nature  of  it;  and 
truth  to  tell,  I  could  be  selfish  enough  to  wish  that 
thou  mightest  share  it  with  me.  Now  art  thou 
all  in  a  fever  of  anxiety!  I  feel  the  fluttering  of 
thy  foolish  little  heart.  Shall  I  tell  thee?  No.- 
Yes;  I  will.  I  have  received  an  invitation  to  a 
party  at  General  McNeil's,  next  Friday  evening. 
Why  will  not  people  let  your  poor  persecuted  hus 
band  alone?  What  jx>ssible  good  can  it  do  for 
me  to  thrust  my  coal-begrimed  visage  and  salt-be- 
frosted  locks  into  good  society?  What  claim 
have  I  to  be  there — a  humble  Measurer,  a  subor 
dinate  Custom-House  officer,  as  I  am !  I  cannot 
go.  I  will  not  go.  I  intend  to  pass  that  evening 
with  my  wife  — that  is  to  say,  in  musings  and 
dreams  of  her,  and  moreover,  it  was  an  exceeding 
breach  of  etiquette,  that  this  belovedest  wife  was 
not  included  in  the  invitation. 

My  duties  began  at  sunrise,  after  a  somewhat 

185 


scanty  night's  rest;  for  George  Hillard  and  his 
brother,  from  Ixnulon,  came  to  see  me,  when  I  was 
preparing  to  go  [  to  |  bed ;  and  I  was  kept  up  pretty 
late.  But  I  came  home  at  about  four  o'clock,  and 
straightway  went  to  bed !  What  a  sinful  way 
was  that  of  misusing  this  summer  afternoon !  I 
trust,  most  dear  wife,  that  the  better  half  of  my 
being  has  drawn  from  the  sweet  day  all  the  honey 
that  it  contained.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  not  so  much 
matter,  now,  whether  my  days  pass  pleasantly  or 
irksomely,  since  thou  canst  be  living  a  golden  life 
for  both  of  us.  Sometime  or  other,  we  will  con 
tribute  each  an  equal  share  of  enjoyment. 

Dearest,  thou  knowest  not  how  I  have  yearned 
for  thee.  And  now  there  is  but  one  day  more  of 
widowhood!  Sophie  Hawthorne  must  not  ex 
pect  me  any  more  on  Fridays,  till  .the  busy  season 
is  over.  If  I  can  always  come  on  the  appointed 
Saturday,  it  will  be  a  great  mercy  of  Heaven;  but 
I  trust  in  Heaven's  goodness,  and  the  instrumen 
tality  of  Colonel  Hall.  Now  God  bless  thee, 
ownest  wife.  God  bless  us. 

To  Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


186 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  May  15th,  1840. 
Darlingesti 

I  did  not  reach  home  last  night  till  candle-light. 
and  then  I  was  beyond  expression  weary  and 
spiritless;  and  I  could  as  soon  have  climbed  into 
Heaven  without  a  ladder,  as  to  come  to  see  thee  at 
Mrs.  Park's.  So,  instead  of  dressing  to  pay  a 
visit,  I  undressed  and  went  to  bed  ;  but  yet  I  doubt 
whether  I  ought  not  to  have  gone,  for  I  was  rest 
less  and  wakeful  a  great  part  of  the  night  ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  scarcely  fallen  asleep,  when  I 
awoke  with  a  start,  and  saw  the  gray  dawn  creep 
ing  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  So  then  it  was 
necessary  for  thy  poor  husband  to  leave  his  pillow, 
without  enjoying  that  half-dreaming  interval 
which  I  so  delight  to  devote  to  thee.  However 
the  fresh  morning  air  made  a  new  creature  of  me; 
and  all  day  I  Have  felt  lolerabi)  lively  a...!  /::er- 
ful  —  as  much  so  as  is  anywise  consistent  with  this 
intolerable  position  of  near  distance,  or  distant 

187 


nearness,  in  which  we  now  rind  ourselves.  Truly 
Providence  does  not  seem  to  have  smiled  on  this 
visit  of  thine,  my  dearest.  The  dispensation  is 
somewhat  hard  to  bear.  There  is  a  weight  and  a 
gnawing  at  my  heart;  but,  belovedest,  do  let  thy 
heart  be  cheerful,  for  thy  husband's  sake. 

Very  reviving  to  me  was  thy  letter,  mine  own- 
est.  Colonel  Hall  brought  it  at  noon  to  the  eat 
ing-house  where  we  had  agreed  to  dine  together; 
and  I  forthwith  opened  it  and  read  it  while  my 
beefsteak  was  broiling.  It  refreshed  me  much 
more  than  my  dinner— which  is  a  great  deal  for 
a  hungry  man  to  say.  Dearest,  I  am  in  admirable 
health;  it  is  not  the  nature  of  my  present  mode  of 
life  to  make  me  sick;  and  my  nightly  weariness 
does  not  betoken  anything  of  that  kind.  Each 
day,  it  is  true,  exhausts  all  the  life  and  animation 
that  there  is  in  me ;  but  each  night  restores  as  much 
as  will  be  required  for  the  expenditure  of  the  next 
day.  I  think  this  week  has  been  about  as  tough 
as  any  that  I  ever  experienced.  I  feel  the  burthen 
of  such  constant  occupation  the  more  sensibly, 
from  having  had  so  many  idle  intervals  of  late. 

Oh,  dearest,  do  not  thou  tire  thyself  to  death. 
Whenever  thou  feelest  weary,  then  oughtest  thou 
to  glide  away  from  all  the  world;  and  go  to  sleep 
with  the  thought  of  thy  husband  in  thy  heart. 

188 


Why  do  not  people  know  better  what  is  requisite 
for  a  Dove,  than  thus  to  keep  her  wings  fluttering  . 
all  day  long,  never  allowing  her  a  moment  to 
fold  them  in  peace  and  quietness?  I  am  anxious 
for  thee,  mine  ownest  wife.  When  I  have  the 
sole  charge  of  thee,  these  things  shall  not  be. 

Belovedest,  didst  thou  not  bless  this  shower? 
It  caused  thy  husband's  labors  to  cease  for  the 
day,  though  it  confined  him  in  the  cabin  of  the 
salt-ship  till  it  was  over;  but  when  the  drops  came 
few  and  far  between,  I  journeyed  hither  to  our 
parlor,  and  began  this  scribble.  Really  I  did  not 
think  my  ideas  would  be  alert  enough  to  write  half 
so  much;  but  I  have  scrawled  one  line  after  an 
other;  and  now  I  feel  much  revived,  and  soothed 
and  cheered  in  mind.  I  shall  sleep  the  more 
quietly,  sweetest  wife,  for  having  had  this  talk 
with  thee  —  thou  wilt  bless  my  sleep.  I  wish  that 
thou  couldst  receive  this  letter  to-night,  because  I 
am  sure  thou  needest  it. 

Let  me  know,  mine  ownest,  what  time  thou  in- 
tendest  to  go  to  Salem;  and  if  it  be  possible,  I  will 
come  to  the  Depot  to  see  thee.  But  do  not  expect 
me  too  fervently,  because  there  are  many  chances 
that  it  will  not  be  in  my  power.  What  a  time  this 
has  been  for  my  Dove  and  me !  Never,  since  wr 
were  married,  have  the  fates  been  so  j>erverse. 

189 


And  now  farewell,  my  dearest,  dearest  wiff%  on 
whom  I  repose,  in  whom  I  am  blest  — whom  I  love 
with  all  the  heart  that  is  in  me,  and  will  love  more 
and  more  forever,  as  I  grow  more  worthy  to  love 
thee.  Be  happy,  dearest ;  for  my  happiness  must 
come  through  thee. 

God  bless  thee,  and  let  me  feel   his  blessing 

through  thy  heart. 

Thy  lovingest  husband— 

DE  L'AUBKPINF. 


190 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  May  19th,  1840 
71  1  y  d  direst, 

Where  in  the  world  art  them?  —  or  hast  thon 
flown  away  to  Paradise,  naughtiest  Dove,  without 
bidding  thy  husband  farewell?  I  know  not 
whereabout  this  letter  will  iind  thee;  but  I  throw 
it  upon  the  winds  in  the  confidence  that  some 
bree/e  of  Heaven  will  bear  it  to  thee;  for  I  sup 
pose  heart  never  spoke  to  heart,  without  being 
heard,  and  sooner  or  later  finding  a  response.  Per 
haps  some  hearts  that  speak  to  other  hearts  here  on 
earth  may  find  no  response  till  they  have  passed 
far  into  Eternity  ;  but  our  hearts  catch  each  other's 
whispers  even  here.  Happy  we!  But,  beloved- 
est,  how  is  it  that  them  hast  sent  me  no  token  of 
thy  existence,  since  we  parted  on  the  Hoopers' 
doorstep,  when  thou  didst  press  my  hand  without 
a  word?  It  seems  an  age  since  then.  Thou  saidst, 
on  Sunday,  that  thou  shouldst  probably  return  to 
Salem  to-day;  but  surely  thou  hast  not  gone.  I 

191 


feel  lonely  and  not  cheerful  — my  spirit  knows  not 
whereabout  to  seek  thee,  and  so  it  shivers  as  it 
there  were  no  TV/"//  at  all  — as  if  my  Dove  had 
been  only  a  dream  and  a  vision,  and  now  had  van 
ished  into  unreality  and  nothingness. 

But  tomorrow  I  shall  surely  hear  from  thee: 
and  even  should  it  be  otherwise,  I  shall  yet  know, 
with  everlasting  faith,  that  my  Dove's  heart  has 
been  trying  to  make  me  sensible  of  its  embraces 
at!  this  time.  My  dearest,  was  not  that  a  sweet 
time  — that  Sabbath  afternoon  and  eve?  But 
why  didst  thou  look  up  in  my  face,  as  we  walked, 
and  ask  why  I  was  so  grave?  If  I  was  grave  I 
know  no  cause  for  it,  beloved.  Lights  and  shad 
ows  are  continually  flitting  across  my  inward  sky. 
and  I  know  neither  whence  they  come  nor  whither 
they  go;  nor  do  I  inquire  too  closely  into  them. 
It  is  dangerous  to  look  too  minutely  at  such  phe 
nomena.  It  is  apt  to  create  a  substance,  where  at 
first  there  was  a  mere  shadow.  If  at  any  time, 
dearest  wife,  there  should  seem  — though  to  me 
there  never  does — but  if  there  should  ever  seem  to 
be  an  expression  unintelligible  from  one  of  our 
souls  to  another,  we  will  not  strive  to  interpret  it 
into  earthly  language,  but  wait  tor  the  soul  to  make 
itself  understood;  and  were  we  to  wait  a  thousand 
years,  we  need  deem  it  no  more  time  than  we  can 

192 


spare.  T  speak  only  in  reference  to  such  dim  and 
intangible  matters  as  that  which  suggested  this 
passage  of  my  letter.  It  is  not  that  I  have  any  love 
for  mystery;  but  bt cause  I  abhor  it  —and  because 
I  have  felt,  a  thousand  times,  that  words  may  be 
a  thick  and  darksome  veil  of  mystery  between  the 
soul  and  the  truth  which  it  seeks.  Wretched  were 
we,  indeed,  it  we  had  no  better  means  of  commun 
icating  ourselves,  no  fairer  garb  in  which  to  array 
our  essential  selves,  than  these  poor  rags  and  tat 
ters  of  Babel.  Yet  words  are  not  without  their 
use,  even  for  purposes  of  explanation,  — but 
merely  for  explaining  outward  acts,  and  all  sorts 
of  external  things,  leaving  the  soul's  lite  and  ac 
tion  to  explain  itselt  in  its  own  way. 

My  belovedest,  what  a  misty  disquisition  have 
I  scribbled!  I  would  not  read  it  over  tor  six 
pence.  Think  not  that  I  supposed  it  necessary  to 
sermoni/e  thee  so;  but  the  sermon  created  itselt 
from  sentence  to  sentence;  and  being  written,  thou 
knowest  that  it  belongs  to  thee,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  keep  it  back.  Dearest,  1  was  up  very 
early  this  morning,  and  have  had  a  g(x>d  deal  to 
do,  especially  this  afternoon.  Let  me  plead  this 
excuse  for  my  dulness  and  mistiness.  I  suspect 
that,  hereafter,  my  little  Dove  will  know  how  to 
estimate  the  difficulty  of  pouring  one's  self  out  in 

193 


a  soul-written  letter,  amid  the  distractions  of  busi 
ness  and  society  — she  herself  having  experienced 
these  checks  upon  her  outpourings. 

Now  good  bye,  mine  ownest  wife.  God  bless 
us  both— or  m;ry  God  bless  either  of  us,  and  that 
one  will  bless  the  other.  Dost  thou  sleep  well 
now-a-nights,  belovedest?  Of  whom  dost  thou 
dream?  Thy  husband's  long  days  and  short 
nights  hardly  leave  him  time  to  dream. 

THINE  OWNEST. 

Dearest,  just  as  I  was  folding  this  letter,  came 
thy  note.  Do  thou  be  at  the  Depot  as  soon  as  JK>S- 
sible  after  eleven;  and  I  will  move  Heaven  and 
earth  to  meet  thee  there.  Perhaps  a  little  before 
eleven. 

• 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
South  Street. 


194 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  May  29th,  1840.  —  6  P.  M. 
M  v  dearest, 

Rejoice  with  thy  husband,  for  he  is  free  from  a 
load  of  coal,  which  has  been  pressing  upon  his 
shoulders  throughout  all  this  hot  weather.  I  am 
convinced  that  Christian's  burthen  consisted  of 
coal  ;  and  no  wonder  he  felt  so  much  relieved  when 
it  fell  off  and  rolled  into  the  sepulchre.  His  load, 
howrever,  at  the  utmost,  could  not  have  been  more 
than  a  tew  bushels;  whereas  mine  was  exactly  one 
hundred  and  thirty-five  chaldrons  and  seven  tubs. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  dearest,  I  feel  the  stroke  upon 
mine  own  head.  Except  through  thee,  I  can 
never  feel  any  torment  of  that  nature;  for  all  these 
burning  suns  have  bla/ed  upon  my  head,  unpro 
tected  except  by  a  black  hat,  and  yet  I  have  felt  no 
more  inconvenience  than  if  I  had  been  sitting  in 
the  pleasant  gloom  or  a  dewy  ,^.  ,t.  T.N  .  \le.,;, 
be  a  great  deal  more  careful  of  thyself.  Remem 
ber  always  that  thou  art  not  thine  own,  but  that 

»95 


Providence  has  entrusted  to  thy  keeping  a  most 
delicate  physical  frame,  which  belongs  wholly  to 
me,  and  which  therefore  thou  must  keep  with  infi 
nitely  more  care  than  thou  wouldst  the  most  pre 
cious  jewel.  And  yet.  I  would  not  have  thee  an 
xious  and  watchful  like  an  invalid;  hut  thou 
shouldst  consider  that  thou  wert  created  to  dwell 
nowhere  hut  in  the  clime  of  Paradise,  and  wast 
only  placed  upon  this  earth,  because  thy  husband 
is  here  and  cannot  do  without  thee  —  and  that  east- 
winds  and  fierce  suns  are  evil  unknown  in  thy  na 
tive  region,  and  therefore  thy  frame  was  not  so 
constructed  as  to  resist  them ;  wherefore  thine  own 
wise  precautions  must  be  thy  safeguard.  Blessed- 
est,  I  kiss  thy  brow,  — at  least,  I  kiss  the  air  thrice; 
and  if  none  of  the  three  kisses  reach  thee,  then  three 
very  precious  things  will  have  gone  forth  from  my 
heart  in  vain.  But  if  any  of  thy  headache  and  be 
wilderment  have  remained  hitherto,  and  now  thou 
feelest  somewhat  like  a  breath  of  Heaven  on  thy 
brow,  we  will  take  it  for  granted  that  my  kisses 
have  found  thee  out.  Good  bye  now,  dearest 
wife;  for  I  am  weary  and  stupid;  and  as  I  need 
not  be  at  the  Custom-House  before  eight  or  nine 
o'clock  tomorrow,  thou  shalt  have  the  rest  of  the 
letter  freshly  written  in  the  morning. 

Now  it  will  be  lucky  for  thee  if  thou  gettest  tht* 

'196 


last  page  of  this  letter  entirely  full.  Dearest,  thy 
last  letter  had  the  fragrance  of  a  bank  of  violets— 
yea,  all  sorts  of  sweet  smelling  flowers  and  per 
fumed  shrubs.  I  can  lie  down  and  repose  aj/o,;  i«, 
as  upon  a  bed  of  roses.  It  rejoices  me  to  think 
that  my  whole  being  is  not  enveloped  with  coal- 
dust,  but  that  its  better  half  is  breathing  the 
breath  of  flowers.  Oh,  do  be  very  happy,  mine 
ownest  wife,  and  fill  thyself  with  all  gentle  plea 
sures  that  lie  within  thy  reach;  because  at  present 
thou  hast  a  double  duty  to  perform  in  this  respect; 
since,  so  far  as  my  enjoyments  depend  on  external 
things,  I  can  contribute  nothing  to  the  common 
stock  of  happiness.  And  yet  clearest,  nothing  that 
I  ever  enjoved  before  can  come  into  the  remotest 
comparison  with  my  continual  enjoyment  of  tin- 
love —  with  the  deep,  satisfied  repose  which  that 
consciousness  brings  to  me;  a  repose  subsisting, 
and  ever  to  subsist,  in  the  midst  of  all  anxieties, 
troubles  and  agitations. 

Belovedest,  I  sometimes  wish  that  thou  couldst 
be  with  |  me  |  on  board  my  salt-vessels  and  col 
liers;  because  there  are  many  things  of  which  thou 
mightst  make  such  pretty  descriptions;  and  in  fu 
ture  years,  when  thy  husband  is  again  busy  at  the 
loom  of  fiction,  he  would  weave  in  these  little  pic 
tures.  My  fancy  is  rendered  so  torpid  by  my  un- 

197 


genial  way  of  life,  that  I  cannot  sketch  off  the 
scenes  and  portraits  that  interest  me;  and  I  am 
forced  to  trust  them  to  my  memory,  with  the  hope 
of  recalling  them  at  some  more  favorable  period 
For  three  or  four  days  past,  I  have  been  observing 
a  little  Mediterranean  boy,  from  Malaga,  not 
more  than  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  but  who  is  al 
ready  a  citi/en  of  the  world,  and  seems  to  be  just 
as  gay  and  contented  on  the  deck  of  a  Yankee 
coal-vessel,  as  he  could  be  while  playing  beside  his 
mother's  door.  It  is  really  touching  to  see  how 
free  and  happy  he  is  —  how  the  little  fellow  takes 
this  whole  wide  world  tor  his  home,  and  all  man 
kind  for  his  family.  He  talks  Spanish—  at  least, 
that  is  his  native  tongue;  but  he  is  also  very  intel 
ligible  in  Knglish,  and  perhaps  he  likewise  has 
smatterings  of  the  speech  of  other  countries,  whi 
ther  the  winds  may  have  wafted  this  little  sea-bird. 
He  is  a  Catholic;  and  yesterday,  being  Friday,  he- 
caught  some  fish  and  fried  them  for  his  dinner,  in 
sweet  oil ;  and  really  they  looked  so  delicate  that  I 
almost  wished  he  would  invite  me  to  partak''. 
Every  once  in  a  while,  he  undresses  himself  and 
leaps  overboard,  plunging  down  beneath  the 
waves,  as  if  the  sea  were  as  native  to  him  as  the 
earth;  then  he  runs  up  the  rigging  of  the  vessel,  as 
if  he  meant  to  fly  away  through  the  air.  Do  thou 

198 


remember  this  little  boy,  dearest,  and  tell  me  of 
him  one  of  thesr  days:  and  perhaps  I  may  make 
something  more  beautiful  of  him  than  thou 
wouldst  think  from  thest*  rough  and  imperfect 
touches. 

Belovedest,  is  thy  head  quite  well?  Art  thou 
ve*ry  beautiful  now?  Dost  thou  love  me  infi 
nitely4? 

Miss  tSophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 


199 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  June  2d,  1840  —  Before  Breakfast 
My  dcjrcst, 

Thy  Friday's  letter  came  in  clue  season  to  the 
Custom-House  ;  but  Colonel  Hall  could  not  find 
time  to  bring  it  to  the  remote  region  of  the  earth, 
where  I  was  then  an  exile;  so  that  it  awaited  me 
till  the  next  morning.  At  noon,  came  thy  next 
letter,  at  an  interval  of  several  hours  from  the  re 
ceipt  of  the  former  -a  space  quite  long  enough  to 
be  inter  posed  between  thy  missives.  And  yester 
day  arrived  thy  letter  of  the  Sabbath  —  and  all 
three  are  very  precious  to  thy  husband;  and  the 
oftener  they  come  the  more  he  needs  them.  Now 
I  must  go  down  to  breakfast.  Dost  thou  not  won 
der  at  finding  me  scribbling  between  seven  and 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning?  I  do  believe, 
naughtiest,  that  thou  hast  been  praying  for  the 
non-arrival  of  salt  and  coal  --not  considering  that, 
if  thy  petitions  are  heard,  the  poor  Measurers  will 
not  earn  a  sixpence. 

200 


Belovedest,  I  know  not  what  counsel  to  give 
thee  about  calling  on  my  sisters;  and  therefore 
must  leave  the  matter  to  thine  own  exquisite  sense 
of  what  is  right  and  delicate.  We  will  talk  it 
over  at  an  early  opportunity.  I  think  I  can  partly 
understand  why  they  appear  cool  towards  thee; 
hut  it  is  for  nothing  in  thyself  personally,  nor  for 
any  unkindness  towards  my  Dove,  whom  every 
body  must  feel  to  be  the  loveablest  being  in  the 
world.  But  there  are  some  untoward  circum 
stances.  Nevertheless,  I  have  faith  that  all  will 
be  well,  and  that  they  will  receive  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  and  the  Dove  into  their  heart  of  hearts;  so 
let  us  wait  patiently  on  Providence,  as  we  always 
have,  and  see  what  time  will  bring  forth.  And, 
my  dearest,  whenever  thou  feelest  disquieted 
about  things  of  this  sort  —  if  ever  that  be  the  case 
—  do  thou  speak  freely  to  thy  husband;  for  these 
are  matters  in  which  words  may  be  of  use,  because 
they  concern  the  relations  between  ourselves  and 
others.  Now,  good  bye,  belovedest,  till  night.  I 
perceive  that  the  sun  is  shining  dimly;  but  I  fear 
that  there  is  still  an  east  wind  to  keep  my  Dove  in 
her  dove-cote. 

Towards  night  —  Ownest  wife,  the  day  has  been 
s|>ent  without  much  pleasure  or  profit  — a  part  of 
the  time  at  the  Custom-House,  waiting  there  for 

201 


the  chance  of  wotk,  -  parti \  at  the  Athenaeum, 
and  partly  at  a  bookstore,  looking  tor  something 
suitable  tor  our  library.  Among  other  recent  pur 
chases,  I  have  bought  a  very  good  edition  of  Mil 
ton  (  his  poetry)  in  two  octavo  volumes;  and  I  saw 
a  huge  new  London  volume  of  his  prose  works, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  but  a  small  por 
tion  of  it  that  thou  and  1  should  ever  care  about 
reading — so  I  left  it  on  the  shelf.  Dearest,  I  have 
bought  some  lithographic  prints  at  auction,  which 
1  mean  to  send  thee,  that  thou  liiayst  show  them 
to  thy  husband,  the  next  afternoon  that  thou  per- 
mittest  him  to  spend  with  thee.  Thou  arMiot  to 
expect  anything  very  splendid;  tor  I  did  not  enter 
the  auction-room  till  a  large  part  of  the  collection 
was  sold ;  so  that  my  choice  was  limited.  Perhaps 
there  are  one  or  two  not  altogether  unworthy  to  be 
put  on  the  walls  of  our  sanctuary ;  but  this  I  leave 
to  thy  finer  judgment.  1  would  thou  couldst  peep 
into  my  room  and  see  thine  own  pictures,  from 
which  I  have  removed  the  black  veils;  and  there  is 
no  telling  how  much  brighter  and  cheerful ler  the 
parlor  looks  now,  whenever  I  enter  it. 

Belovedest,  I  love  thee  very  especially  much  to 
day.      But  then  that  naughty  Sophie  Hawthorne 
-it  would  be  out  of  the  question  to  treat  her  with 
tenderness.     Nothing  shall  she  get  from  me,  at 

202 


my  next  visit,  save  a  kiss  upon  her  n<»r;  and  I 
should  not  wonder  if  she  were  to  return  the  favor 
with  a  buffet  upon  my  ear.  Mine  own  Dove,  hov 
unhappy  art  thou  to  he  linked  with  such  a  mate1 
—  to  he  hound  up  in  the  same  volume  with  her!- 
and  me  unhappy,  too,  to  he  forced  to  keep  such  ;* 
turbulent  little  rebel  in  my  inmost  heart!  Dost 
thou  not  think  she  might  be  persuaded  to  with 
draw  herself,  quietly,  and  take  up  hrr  resilience 
somewhere  else?  Oh,  what  an  idea!  It  makes 
my  heart  close  its  valves  and  embrace  her  the  more 
closely. 

Well,  dearest,  it  is  breakfast  time,  and  thy  hus 
band  hath  an  appetite.  What  dost  thou  eat  for 
breakfast  V —  but  I  know  well  enough  that  thou 
never  eatest  anything  but  bread  and  milk  and 
chickens.  Dost  thou  love  pigeons  in  a  pie?  I 
am  fonder  of  Dove  than  anything  else—  it  is  my 
heart's  food  and  sole  sustenance.  God  bless  us. 

THINE  OWN  HUSBAND. 


203 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  June  I  Ith,  1840  —  5  or  6  P.  M. 
M  v  blcssedest) 

Thou  hast  strayed  quite  out  of  the  sphere  of  my 
imagination,  and  I  know  not  how  to  represent  thy 
whereabout,  any  more  than  it  thou  hadst  gone  on 
pilgrimage  beyond  the  sea,  or  to  the  moon.  Dost 
thou  still  love  me,  in  all  thy  wanderings  V  Are 
there  any  east-winds  there?  Truly,  now  that 
thou  hast  escaped  beyond  its  jurisdiction,  I  could 
wish  that  the  east  wind  would  blow  every  day, 
from  ten  o'clock  till  five;  for  there  is  great  refresh 
ment  in  it  for  us  poor  mortals  that  toil  beneath 
the  sun.  Dearest,  thou  must  not  think  too  un 
kindly  even  of  the  east-wind.  It  is  not,  perhaps, 
a  wind  to  be  loved,  even  in  its  benignest  moods; 
but  there  are  seasons  when  I  delight  to  feel  its 
breath  upon  my  cheek,  though  it  be  never  advisa 
ble  to  throw  open  my  bosom  and  take  it  into  my 
heart,  as  I  would  its  gentle  sisters  of  the  South  and 
West.  To-day,  if  I  had  been  on  the  wharves,  the 

204 


slight  chill  of  an  east  wind  would  have  been  a 
blessing,  like  the  chill  of  death  to  a  world-wear) 
man.      But,  dearest,  thon  wilt  rejoice  to  hear  that 
this  has  been  one  of  the  very  idlest  days  that  I  ever 
spent  in  Boston.      Oh,  hadst  thon  been  here!      In 
the  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  I  went  to  the 
Athenaeum  Gallery;  and  during  the  hour  or  two 
that  I  stayed,  not  a  single  visitor  came  in.     Some 
people  were  putting  up  paintings  in  one  division 
of  the  room;  but  we  might  have  had  the  other  all 
to  ourselves — thy  husband  had  it  all  to  himself  - 
or  rather,  he  did  not  have  it,  nor  possess  it  in  ful 
ness  and  reality,  because  thou  wast  not  there.      I 
cannot  see  pictures  without  thee;  so  thou  must  not 
expect  me  to  criticise  this  exhibition.     There  are 
two  pictures  there  by  our  friend  (thy  friend  —  and 
is  it  not  the  same  thing?)  Sarah  Clark  —  scenes  in 
Kentucky.      Doubtless  I  shall  find  them  very  ad 
mirable,  when  we  have  looked  at  them  together. 
The  gallery  of  sculpture  I  shall  not  visit,  unless  I 
can  be  there  writh  thee. 

From  the  picture  gallery  I  went  to  the  reading- 
room  of  the  Athenaeum,  and  there  read  the  maga 
zines  till  nearly  twelve  — thence  to  the  Custom- 
House,  and  soon  afterwards  to  dinner  with  Col 
onel  Hall  —  then  back  to  the  Custom-House,  but 
only  for  a  little  while.  There  was  nothing  in  the 

205 


world  to  do,  and  so,  at  two  o'clock,  T  came  home 
and  lay  down  on  the  bed,  with  the  Faery  Oueen  in 
my  hand,  and  my  Dove  in  my  heart.  Soon  a 
pleasant  slumber  came  over  me;  it  was  not  a  deep, 
sound  sleep,  but  a  slumbrous  withdrawing  of  my 
self  from  the  external  world.  Whether  thou 
earnest  to  me  in  a  dream,  i  cannot  tell ;  but  thou 
didst  peep  at  me  through  all  the  interstices  of 
sleep.  After  I  awoke,  I  did  not  take  up  the  Faery 
Oueen  again,  but  lay  thinking  of  thee,  and  at  last 
bestirred  myself  and  got  up  to  write  this  letter. 
My  belovedest  wife,  does  it  not  make  thee  happy 
to  think  that  thy  husband  has  escaped,  tor  one 
whole  summer  day,  from  his  burthen  of  salt  and 
coal,  and  has  been  almost  as  idle  as  ever  his  idle 
nature  could  desire?  —  and  this,  too,  on  one  of  the 
longest  days  of  all  the  year!  Oh,  could  I  have 
spent  it  in  some  shady  nook,  with  mine  own  wife! 
Now  good-bye,  blessedest.  So  indolent  is  tin 
husband,  that  he  intends  now  to  relieve  himself 
even  from  the  sweet  toil  of  shaping  his  thoughts 
of  thee  into  written  words;  moreover,  there  is  no 
present  need  of  it,  because  I  am  not  to  be  at  the 
Custom-House  very  early,  and  can  finish  this  let 
ter  tomorrow  morning.  Good-bye,  dearest,  and 
keep  a  quiet  heart. 

June  12th.      !/2  past  7  A.M.  — Belovedest,  art 

206 


thou  not  going  to  he  very  happy  to-day?  T  hope 
so,  and  believe  so;  and,  dearest,  if  thou  findest 
thyself  comfortable  at  Concord  — and  if  the  Emer 
son  ians  love  thee  and  admire  thee  as  they  ought - 
do  not  thou  too  stubbornly  refuse  to  stay  a  week 
longer  than  the  term  first  assigned. 

(Remainder  of  letter  missing) 


207 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  June  22d,  (Monday)  */2  past  4  [1840] 
Owne^t,  Colonel  Hall  put  thy  letter  into  my 
hand  at  our  eating-house,  so  that  its  reception  was 
timed  very  like  that  of  mine  to  thee;  hut  thy  hus 
band  cared  not  for  ceremony,  nor  for  the  presence 
of  fifty  people,  but  straightway  broke  the  lklon^- 
le^ged  little  fowl11  asunder  and  be^an  to  read. 
Belovedest,  what  a  letter!  Never  was  so  much 
beauty  poured-  out  of  any  heart  before:  and  to  read 
it  over  and  over  is  like  bathing  my  brow  in  a  fresh 
fountain,  and  drinking  draughts  that  renew  the 
life  within  me.  Nature  is  kind  and  motherly  to 
thee.  and  taketh  thee  into  her  inmost  heart  and 
cherisheth  thee  there,  because  thou  lookest  on  her 
with  holy  and  loving  eyes.  My  dearest,  how 
canst  thou  say  that  I  have  ever  written  anything 
beautiful,  bein^  thyself  so  |x>tent  to  reproduce 
whatever  is  loveliest*?  If  I  did  not  know  that 
thou  lovest  me.  I  should  even  be  ashamed  before 
thee.  Sweetest  wife,  it  gladdens  me  likewise  that 

208 


thou  meetest  with  such  sympathy  there,  and  that 
thy  friends  have  faith  that  thy  husband  is  worth) 
of  thee,  because  they  see  that  thy  wise  heart  coulu 
not  have  gone  astray.     Worthy  of  thee  I  am  not : 
but  thou  wilt  make  me  so;  for  there  will  be  time, 
or  eternity  enough,   for  thy  blessed  influence  to 
work  upon  me.      Would  that  we  could  build  our 
cottage  this  very  now,  this  very  summer,  amid  the\\ 
scenes  which  thou  describest.      My  heart  thirsts 
and  languishes  to  be  there,  away  from  the  hot  sun 
and  the  coal-dust  and  the  steaming  docks,  and  the 
thick-pated,  stubborn,  contentious  men,  with  whom       i 
I  brawl  from  morning  till  night,  and  all  the  weary 
toil   which  quite  engrosses  me,  and  yet  occupies 
only  a  part  of  my  being  which  I  did  not  know  ex 
isted  before  I  became  a  Measurer.    I  do  think  that 
I  should  sink  down  quite , disheartened  and  inani 
mate  if  thou  wert  not  happy,  and  gathering  from 
earth  and  sky  enjoyment  lor  both  of  us;  but  this 
makes  me  feel  that  my  real,  innermost  soul  is  apart 
from  all  these  unlovely  circumstances,  —  and  that 
it  has  not  ceased  to  exist,  as  I  might  sometimes  sus 
pect,  but  is  nourished  and  kept  alive  through  thee. 
Belovedest,  if  thou  findest  it  good  to  be  there,  why 
wilt  thou  not  stay  even  a  little  longer  than  this 
week?     Thou  knowest  not  what  comfort  I  have  in 
thinking  of  thee  and  those  beautiful  scenes;  where 

209 


the  east  wind  cometh  not,  and  amid  those  sympa 
thizing  hearts,  which  perhaps  them  wilt  not  rind 
elsewhere— at  least  not  everywhere.  I  feel  as  if 
thou  hadst  found  a  haven  of  peace  and  rest,  where 
I  can  trust  thee  without  disquiet,  and  feel  that 
thou  art  safe.  If  thou  art  well  and  happy,  if  th) 
cheek  is  becoming  rosier,  it  thy  step  is  light  and 
joyous  there,  and  if  thv  heart  makes  pleasant  mu 
sic,  then  is  it  not  better  for  thee  to  stay  a  little 
longer?  And  if  better  for  thee,  it  is  so  for  thy  hus 
band  likewise.  Now,  ownest  wife,  I  do  not  press 
thee  to  stay,  but  leave  it  all  to  thy  wisdom,  and 
if  thou  feelest  that  it  is  now  time  to  come  home, 
most  gladly  will  he  welcome  thee. 

Dearest,  I  meant  to  have  written  to  thee  yester 
day  afternoon,  so  that  thou  shouldst  have  received 
the  letter  today,  but  Mrs.  Hi  Hard  pressed  her  hus 
band  and -myself  to  take  a  walk  into  the  country, 
because  his  health  needed  such  an  excursion.  So, 
after  taking  a  nap,  we  set  forth  over  the  western 
avenue — a  dreary,  treeless,  fierce-sunshiny,  irk 
some  road;  but  after  journeying  three  or  four 
or  five  miles,  we  came  to  some  of  the  love 
liest  rural  scenery — yes,  the  very  loveliest — 
that  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  The  first  part  of 
our  road  was  like  the  life  of  toil  and 
weariness  that  I  am  now  leading;  the  latter 

210 


part  was  like  the  life  that  we  will  lead  hereafter. 
Would  that  I  had  thy  pen,  ami  I  would  give  thee 
pictures  of  beauty  to  match  thine  own;  but  I 
should  only  mar  my  remembrance  of  them  by  the 
attempt.  Not  a  beautiful  scene  did  I  behold  but 
I  imaged  thee  in  the  midst  of  it  — thou  wast  with 
me  in  all  the  walk,  and  when  I  sighed  it  was  for 
thee,  and  when  I  smiled  it  was  for  thee,  and 
when  I  trusted  in  future  happiness,  it  was 
for  thee;  and  if  I  did  not  doubt  and  fear,  it 
was  altogether  because  oi  thee.  What  else  than 
happiness  can  (rod  intend  for  thee V— and  if  thy 
happiness,  then  mine  also.  On  our  return,  we 
stopped  at  Braman's  baths,  and  plunged  in,  and 
washed  away  all  stains  of  earth,  and  became  new 
creatures.  Dearest,  I  sympathi/e  with  thee  in  thy 
love  of  the  bath,  and  conveniences  for  it  must  not 
be  forgotten  in  our  domestic  arrangements.  Yet 
I  am  not  entirely  satisfied  with  any  more  contrac 
ted  bath  than  the  illimitable  ocean;  and  to  plunge 
into  it  is  the  next  thing  to  soaring  into  the  sky. 

This  morning  I  rose  rarlv  to  finish  measuring  a 
load  of  coal,  which  being  accomplished  in  the 
forenoon,  and  there  being  little  prospect  of  any 
thing  more  to  do,  Colonel  Hall,  who  perceived 
that  thy  husband's  energies  were  somewhat  ex 
hausted  by  the  heat,  and  by  much  brawling  with 

211 


the  coal-people,  did  send  me  home  immediately 
after  d;nn?r.     S'>  th*n  !  took  :\  nap,  with  a  vol 
ume  of  Spenser  in  my  hand,  and  awaking  at  four. 
I  re-re-reperused  thy  last  letter,  and  sat  down  to 
pour  myself  out  to  thee,  and  in  so  doing,  dearest 
wife,  I  have  had  great  comfort.     And  now  the 
afternoon  is  beautiful  in  its  decline;  but  my  feet 
are  somewhat  afflicted  with  yesterday's  excursion; 
so  that  I  am  in  doubt  whether  to  go  out  again,  al 
though  I  should  like  a  bath. 

Belovedest,  I  must  not  forget  to  thank  Mr.  Em 
erson  for  his  invitation  to  Concord;  but  really  it 
will  not  be  in  my  power  to  accept  it.  Do  thou 
say  this  in  the  way  it  ought  to  be  said,  and  let  him 
know  what  a  business-machine  thy  husband  is. 
Now,  good-bye.  Art  thou  very  happy  V  I  trust 
so,  dearest.  Thou  hast  our  whole  treasure  of  hap 
piness  in  thy  keeping.  Keep  it  safe,  ownest  wife, 
and  add  to  it  continually.  God  bless  thec. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Rev.  R.  W.  Emerson, 
Concord,  Massachusetts. 
(Forwarded,  Salem). 


212 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Boston,  July  io'h,  1840—  -Morning 
Beloved  est) 

Doubtless  thou  didst  expect  a  letter  from  me 
yesterday  ;  but  my  days  have  been  so  busy,  and  rm 
evenings  so  invaded  with  visitants,  that  I  have  not 
had  a  moment's  time  to  talk  with  thee.  Scarcely, 
till  this  morning,  have  T  been  able  to  read  thy  let 
ter  quietly.  Night  before  last,  came  Mr.  Jones 
Very  ;  and  thou  knowest  that  he  is  somewhat  un 
conscionable  as  to  the  length  of  his  calls.  Yes 
terday  I  came  home  earlv  ;  and  had  the  fates  been 
propitious,  thou  shouldst  have  had  a  long  letter; 
but  in  the  afternoon  came  Mr.  Hillard's  London 
brother,  and  wasted  my  precious  hours  with  a  dul1 
talk  of  nothing;  and  in  the  evening  I  was  soreh 
tried  with  Mr.  Conolly,  and  a  Cambridge  law- 
student,  who  came  to  do  homage  to  thy  husband's 
literary  renown.  So  my  sweetest  wife  was  put 
aside  for  these  idle  people.  I  do  wish  the  block 
heads,  and  all  other  blockheads  in  this  world, 
•  could  comprehend  how  inestimable  are  the  quiet 

213 


hours  of  a  busy  man  — especially  when  that  man 
ha>  no  native  impulse  to  keep  him  busy,  but  is 
continually  forced  to  battle  with  his  own  nature, 
which  yearns  for  seclusion  (the  solitude  of  a  uni 
ted  two,  mv  belovedest)  and  freedom  to  think, 
and  dream,  and  feel. 

Well,  dearest,  thy  husband  is  in  perfect  health 
this  morning,  and  gcx>d  spirits;  and  much  cloth  he 
rejoice  that  thou  art  so  soon  to  be  near  him.  No 
tongue  can  tell  — no  pen  can  write  what  I  feel. 
Belovedest,  do  not  thou  make  thyself  sick  in  the 
bustle  of  removing;  for  I  think  that  there  is  nothing 
more  trying,  even  to  a  robust  frame  and  rugged 
spirit,  than  the  disturbance  of  such  an  occasion. 
Now,  good-bye;  for  I  must  hurry  to  the  Custom- 
House  to  see  Colonel  Hall,  who  is  going  out  of 
town  for  two  days,  and  will  probably  leave  the 
administration  of  our  department  in  my  hands. 

God  bless  thee,  belovedest; — and  perhaps  thou 
wilt  receive  another  letter  before  thy  advent,  but 
do  not  thou  count  upon  it. 

Thine  ownest  Husband, 

DE  I/AUBEPINE. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Feabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Salem,  Mass. 

214 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


54  Pinckney  St.,  August  9th  [1840] 
Oicncst  Dove, 

I  have  almost  forgotten  how  to  write  letters— 
not  having  put  pen  to  paper  tor  that  purpose  (or 
any  other,  indeed)  since  my  last  to  thee;  hut  I 
cannot  help  writing  thee  a  few  lines,  now  when  I 
had  hoped  to  be  listening  to  thy  sweetest  voice. 
Art  thou  much  changed  in  this  intervening  time? 
Is  thy  hair  grown  gray?  Art  thou  an  old  woman? 
Truly,  it  does  appear  very,  very  long  to  thy  hus 
band—an  incomputable  period.  Belovedest,  I 
had  been  out  this  forenoon  ;  and  when  I  returned, 
there  was  thy  letter,  lying  on  the  threshold  of  my 
chamber-door.  I  had  a  presage  of  calamity,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  it.  Had  I  known  of  this  visit  of  thine 
aunt,  I  would  have  taken  the  opportunity  to  go  to 
Salem,  and  so  we  would  have  had  next  Sunday  to 
ourselves.  Does  thine  aunt  say  that  thou  lookest 
in  magnificent  health?  —  and  that  thou  art  very 
beautiful?  If  she  has  not  yet  said  so  thou 
shouldst  ask  her  opinion  on  that  j>oint. 

Belovedest,  even  if  thine  aunt  Curtis  should 

215 


stay  a  week,  do  not  thon  incommode  thy  mother 
and  sisters  by  trying  to  arrange  a  meeting.  It  is 
very  painful  to  me  to  disturb  and  derange  any 
body  in  the  world. 

Thou  dost  not  say  whether  thou  art  very  well 
to-day — and  whether  thou  art  light  of  heart.  I 
beseech  thee  never  to  write  me  even  the  shortest 
lote,  without  giving  me  a  glimpse  of  thyself  in 
the  very  moment  of  writing;  — and  yet,  I  leave  it 
all  to  thee,  and  withdraw  this  last  petition.  Thou 
knowest  best  what  to  write;  for  thou  art  an  in 
spired  little  penwoman. 

Thy  husband  is  to  measure  salt  at  the  end  of 
Long  Wharf  tomorrow,  and  the  next  day,  and 
probably  the  next,  and  the  next.  It  is  as  desira 
ble  a  place  and  employment  as  a  Measurer  can  ex 
pect;  so  let  thy  visions. of  me  be  rather  pleasurable 
than  otherwise.  I  am  in  particularly  good  health; 
but  my  heart  hungers  tor  thee — nevertheless,  I 
mean  to  be  cheerful  and  content.  Do  thou  be  so 
likewise,  little  Dove  —  and  naughty  Sophie  Haw 
thorne  too.  Now,  good-bye.  This  is  a  very 
empty  letter — at  least,  it  would  be  so,  if  it  had  not 
an  infinite  love  in  it.  God  bless  thee. 


Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
No.  13  West  street, 
Boston. 

2l6 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


54  Pinckncy  St.  August  24th,  ^  past  6  P.  M.  [1840] 
O;cv/  bclovcdcst, 

I  had  a  presentiment  of  a  letter  from  thee  this 
morning;  and  so  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  I 
saw  thy  father  in  the  long,  low,  darksome  room 
where  thy  husband  was  in  durance.  But  I  had 
not  the  least  anticipation  of  the  intelligence  which 
thou  didst  send  me;  and  it  is  the  harder  to  he 
borne,  because—  (do  not  be  naughty,  ownest 
Dove)—  I  have  an  indispensable  engagement  at 
Cambridge  tomorrow  afternoon  and  evening; 
whereby  our  meeting  must  be  delayed  yet  another 
day.  Dearest,  do  set  me  a  lofty  example  of  pa 
tience.  Be  very  good  and  very  quiet,  and  enjoy  thy 
Aunt  Curtis's  society  to  the  utmost,  and  press  her 
to  stay  with  thee  till  Wednesday  at  six  o'clock. 
But  not  an  hour  longer!  Thou  must  absolutely 
eject  [her  |  with  thine  own  tender  little  hands,  if 
she  pro|K)se  to  tarn  that  night  also. 

Belovedest,  I  went  to  the  Hurley  Burley  last 
evening;  and  considering  that  it  was  the  first  time 

217 


I  had  been  there  without  thee  since  we  were  mar 
ried,  I  enjoyed  it  very  well.  We  had  a  g<xxi  deal 
of  talk;  hut  I  missed  thy  gentle  voice,  which  is 
surely  the  sweetest  sound  that  was  ever  heard  any 
where  save  in  Paradise.  Thy  husband  talked 
somewhat  more  than  is  his  wont,  but  said  nothing 
that  is  at  all  worth  repeating;  and  I  think  he 
might  as  well  have  dispensed  with  saying  any 
thing.  He  shows  his  wisdom  and  policy  much 
more  in  his  general  silence  than  in  his  occasional 
loquacity.  Dearest,  it  I  had  not  so  high  a  respect 
for  thy  judgment,  I  should  pronounce  thy  husband 
but  a  tolerable  person,  at  best;  but  as  thou  hast 
been  impelled  to  give  thy  precious  self  to  such  a 
man,  there  must  be  more  in  him  than  ordinary 
eyes  can  perceive.  Miss  Burley  proposed  to  nn 
to  write  an  address  of  some  kind  tor  the  Bunker 
Hill  fair;  but  I  manifested  no  readiness  to  comph 
—  neither  do  I  feel  any.  Has  my  Dove  contrib 
uted  anything? 

I  went  home  in  the  midst  of  that  beautiful  rain, 
and  sat  up  two  hours  with  Elizabeth  and  Louisa. 

This  has  not  been  a  toilsome  dav,  my  witV.  In 
deed,  I  have  had  nothing  to  do;  nor  is  it  certain  that 
T  shall  be  employed  tomorrow  morning.  Ouite  un 
expected  is  this  lull  amid  the  tempest  of  business. 
I  left  the  Custom-House  at  about  four  o'clock,  and 

218 


went  to  the  hath,  where  T  spent  half  an  hoin  \cry 
deliciou<ly.  Dearest,  we  must  have  all  sorts  of 
bathing  conveniences  in  our  establishment.  Thou 
art  a  water-spirit,  like  Undine.  And  thy  spirit  is 
to  mine  a  pure  fountain,  in  which  I  bathe  my  brow 
and  heart;  and  immediately  all  the  fever  of  the 
world  departs.  Thou  art — but  I  cannot  quite  get 
hold  of  the  idea  that  I  meant  to  express;  and  as  1 
want  to  leave  a  part  of  the  page  till  tomorrow 
morning,  I  will  stop  here.  God  bless  thee.  I 
think  I  shall  dream  of  thee  to  night,  for  I  never 
loved  thee  so  much. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
No.  13  West  street, 
Boston. 


219 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


54  Pinckney  St.  Sept.   i8'h,  1840.   8  o'clock  P.  M. 
Sweetest  Dove, 

Thy  father,  apparently,  did  not  see  fit  to  carry 
thy  letter  to  the  Custom-House  ;  and  vet  I  think 
my  intuition  informed  me  that  a  letter  was  writ 
ten;  for  I  looked  into  the  Desk  very  eagerly,  al 
though  Colonel  Hall  neither  pointed  with  his  fin 
ger  nor  glanced  with  his  eye,  as  is  his  custom  when 
anything  very  precious  is  in  store.  It  reached  me 
here  in  mine  own  tabernacle,  about  halt  an  hour 
since,  while  I  sat  resting  myself  from  the  toils  of 
the  day,  thinking  of  thee,  my  Dove. 

Thou  didst  make  me  happier,  last  evening,  than 
I  ever  hoped  to  be,  save  in  Heaven  —  and  still  that 
same  happiness  is  around  me  and  within  me.  I 
am  the  happier  for  everything  thou  dost  and  say- 
est  —  thou  canst  not  |X)ssibly  act  so  that  I  will  not 
love  thee  better  and  be  the  happier  for  that  very 
individual  action. 

Dearest,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  speak 
'to  thee  to-night  ;  but  thou  must  not  look  for  such  a 

220 


golden  letter  as  thou  didst  write  this  morning;  for 
thy  husband  is  tolerably  weary,  and  has  very  few 
thoughts  in  his  mind,  though  much  love  in  his 
heart.  I  cannot  do  without  thy  voice  — thou 
knowest  not  what  a  sweet  influence  it  has  upon 
me,  even  apart  from  the  honied  wisdom  which 
thou  utterest.  If  thou  shouldst  talk  in  an  un 
known  tongue,  f  should  listen  with  infinite  satis 
faction,  and  be  much  edified  in  spirit  at  least,  if 
not  ;n  intellect.  When  thou  speakest  to  me,  there 
is  mingled  with  those  earthly  words,  which  are 
mortal  inventions,  a  tar  diviner  language,  which 
thy  soul  utters  and  niv  soul  understands. 

Ownest  Dove,  I  did  not  choose  to  go  to  Maiden 
this  evening,  to  hear  the  political  lecture  which  I 
told  thee  of;  for,  indeed,  after  toiling  all  day,  it 
is  rather  too  hard  to  be  bothered  with  such  non 
sense  at  night.  I  have  no  desire  to  go  any  whither, 
after  sunset,  save  to  see  mine  own  wife;  and  as  to 
lectures,  I  love  none  but  "curtain  lectures" ;  — for 
such  I  suppose  thine  may  br  termed,  although  our 
beloved  so  far  hath  no  curtains.  Dearest,  when 
we  live  together,  thou  wilt  find  me  a  most  te 
diously  stay-at-home  husband.  Thou  wilt  be 
compelled  to  rebuke  and  objurgate  me,  in  order  to 
gain  the  privilege  of  spending  one  or  two  evenings 
in  a  month  by  a  solitary  fireside. 

221 


Sweetest  wife,  T  must  bid  thee  farewell  now, 
exhorting  thee  to  he  as  happy  as  the  angels;  for 
thou  art  as  good  and  holy  as  they,  and  have  more 
merit  in  thy  gcxxlness  than  they  have;  because  the 
angels  have  always  dwelt  in  sinless  heaven; 
whereas  thy  pilgrimage  has  been  on  earth,  where 
many  sin  and  go  astray.  I  am  ashamed  of  this 
letter;  there  is  nothing  in  it  worthy  of  being  of 
fered  to  my  Dove;  but  yet  I  shall  send  it;  for  a 
letter  to  one's  beloved  wife  ought  not  to  be  kept 
back  for  any  dimness  of  thought  or  feebleness  of 
expression,  any  more  than  a  prayer  should  be  sti 
fled  in  the  soul,  because  the  tongue  of  man  cannot 
breathe  it  eloquently  to  the  Deity.  Lo\e  has  its 
own  omniscience;  and  what  Love  speaks  lo  Love 
is  comprehended  in  the  same  way  that  prayers  are. 

Ownest,  dost  thou  not  long  very  earnestly  to 
see  thv  husband?  Well  —  thou  shalt  see  him  on 
Monday  night;  and  this  very  night  he  will  come 
into  thy  dreams,  if  thou  wilt  admit  him  there. 

Thy  very  lovingest,  and  very  sleepiest, 

HUSBAND, 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Boston. 

222 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Salem,  Oct.  4th,  1840 — */2  past  10  A.  M. 
Mine  mcncst* 

Here  sits  thy  hushaiui  in  his  old  accustomed 
chamber,  where  he  used  to  sit  in  \  ears  gone  by,  be 
fore  his  soul  became  acquainted  with  thine.  Here 
I  have  written  many  talcs— many  that  have  been 
burned  to  ashes  — mam  that  doubtless  deserved 
the  same  fate.  This  deserves  to  be  called  a 
haunted  chamber,  for  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  visions  have  appeared  to  me  in  it;  and  some 
few  of  them  have  become  visible  to  the  world.  If 
ever  I  should  have  a  biographer,  he  ought  to  make 
great  mention  of  this  chamber  in  my  memoirs,  be 
cause  so  much  of  my  lonely  youth  was  wasted 
here,  and  here  my  mind  and  character  were 
formed:  and  here  I  have  been  glad  and  hopeful, 
and  here  I  have  been  despondent;  and  here  I  sat  a 
long,  long  time,  waiting  patiently  for  the  world  to 
know  me,  and  sometimes  wondering  why  it  did 
not  know  me  sooner,  or  whether  it  would  ever 

223 


know  me  at  all  —  at  least,  till  I  were  in  my  grave. 
And  sometimes  (tor  I  had  no  wife  then  to  keep 
ni)  heart  warm)  it  seemed  a;s  if  I  were  already  in 
the  grave,  with  only  life  enough  to  be  chilled  and 
benumbed.     But  oftener  I  was  happy — at  least, 
as  happy  as  I  then  knew  how  to  be,  or  was  aware 
of  the  possibility  of  being.   By  and  bye,  the  world 
found  me  out  in  my  lonely  chamber,  and  called 
me  forth  — not,  indeed,  with  a  loud  roar  of  accla 
mation,  but  rather  with  a  still,  small  voice;  and 
forth  I  went,  but  found  nothing  in  the  world  that 
I  thought  preferable  to  my  old  solitude,  till   at 
length  a  certain  Dove  was  revealed  to  me,  in  the 
shadow  of  a  seclusion  as  deep  as  my  own  had  been. 
And  1  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Dove,  and 
opened  my  bosom  to  her,  and  she  flitted  into  it, 
and  closed  her  wings  there  —  and  there  she  nestles 
now  and  forever,  keeping  my  heart  warm,  and  re 
newing  my  life  with  her  own.      So  now  I  begin  to 
understand  why  I  was  imprisoned  so  many  years 
in  this  lonely  chamber,  and  win    I   could  never 
break  through  the  viewless  bolts  and  bars;  for  if  I 
had   sooner  made   my   escape   into  the   world,    I 
should  have  grown  hard  and  rough,  and  been  cov 
ered  with  earthly  dust,  and  my  heart  would  have 
become  callous  by  rude  encounters  with  the  mul 
titude;  so  that  I  should  have  been  all  unfit  to  shel- 

224 


ter  a  heavenly  Dove  in  my  arms.  But  living  in 
solitude  till  the  fulness  of  time  was  come,  I  still 
kept  the  dew  of  my  youth  and  the  freshness  of  my 
heart,  and  had  these  to  offer  to  my  Dove. 

Well,  dearest,  I  had  no  notion  what  I  was  go 
ing  to  write,  when  I  hegan,  and  indeed  I  doubted 
whether  I  should  write  anything  at  all;  for  after 
such  communion  as  that  of  our  last  blissful  even 
ing,  it  seems  as  if  a  sheet  of  paper  could  only  be 
a  veil  betwixt  us.  Ownest,  in  the  times  that  I 
have  been  speaking  of,  I  used  to  think  that  I  could 
imagine  all  passions,  all  feelings,  all  states  of  the 
heart  and  mind;  but  how  little  did  I  know  what 
it  is  to  be  mingled  with  another's  being!  Thou 
only  hast  taught  me  that  1  have  a  heart  — thou 
only  hast  thrown  a  light  deep  downward,  and  up 
ward,  into  my  soul.  Thou  only  hast  revealed  me 
to  myself;  for  without  thy  aid,  my  best  knowledge 
of  myself  would  have  been  merely  to  know  my 
own  shadow  —  to  watch  it  flickering  on  the  wall, 
and  mistake  its  fantasies  for  my  own  real  actions. 
Indeed,  we  are  but  shadows — we  are  not  en 
dowed  with  real  life,  and  all  that  seems  most  real 
about  us  is  but  the  thinnest  substance  of  a  dream 

—  till  the  heart  is  touched.     That  touch  creates  us 

—  then  we  begin  to  be — thereby  we  are  beings  of 
reality,  and  inheritors  of  eternity.     Now,  dearest, 

225 


dost  thou  comprehend  what  thou  hast  done  lor 
me?  And  is  it  not  a  somewhat  tearful  thought, 
that  a  few  slight  circumstances  might  have  pre 
vented  us  from  meeting,  and  then  I  should  have 
returned  to  my  solitude,  sooner  or  later  (probably 
now,  when  I  have  thrown  down  my  burthen  of 
coal  and  salt)  and  never  should  fhave|  been  cre 
ated  at  all!  But  this  is  an  idle  speculation.  If 
the  whole  world  had  stood  between  us,  we  must 
have  met  —  if  we  had  been  born  in  different  ages, 
we  could  not  have  been  sundered. 

Belovedest,  how  dost  thou  do?  If  I  mistake 
not,  it  was  a  southern  rain  yesterday,  and,  next  to 
the  sunshine  of  Paradise,  thjf  seems  to  be  thy  ele 
ment. 

Mi 5s  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Boston,  Mass. 


226 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Safari,  Novr.  2;fh,  Friday   [1840] 
DC  \t  rest  ffV/r, 

Never  was  a  wife  so  yearned  for  as  thou  art.  I 
wonder  how  I  could  have  resolved  to  he  absent 
from  thee  so  long-  it  is  far  too  long  a  time  to  be 
wasted  in  a  suspension  of  life.  My  heart  is  some 
times  taint  tor  want  of  thee  —  and  sometimes  it  is 
violent  and  tumultuous  for  the  same  rause.  How 
is  it  with  thine,  mine  ownest?  Dost  thou  not 
feel  when  thou  goest  to  bed,  that  the  day  is  ut 
terly  incomplete?—  that  it  has  been  an  unsatisfac 
tory  dream,  wherein  the  soul  groped  wearily  for 
something  that  it  could  not  obtain1?  Thus  it  is 
with  thy  husband. 

What  a  history  wilt  thou  have  to  tell  me,  when 
I  come  back!  We  shall  be  a  week  in  getting 
through  it.  Poor  little  Dove.  I  pity  thee  now; 
for  I  apprehend  that,  by  this  time,  thou  hast  got 
thy  husband's  dullest  of  all  books  to  read.  And 
how  many  pages  canst  thou  read,  without  falling 

227 


asleep?  Well  is  it  for  thee,  that  thou  hast  adop 
ted  the  practice  of  extending  thyself  on  the  sopha. 
while  at  thy  studies;  tor  now  I  need  he  under  no 
apprehension  of  thy  sinking  out  of  a  chair. 
I  would,  for  thy  sake,  that  thou  couldst  find  any- 
thjn^  laudable  in  this  awful  little  volume;  he- 
cause  thou  wouldst  like  to  tell  thy  husband  that 
he  has  done  well. 

Oh,  this  weather! --how  dismal  it  is.  A  sullen 
sky  above,  and  mud  and  "slosh"  below!  Thy 
husband  needs  thy  sunshine,  thou  cheerful  lest  lit 
tle  wife;  for  he  is  <juite  pervaded  and  imbued  with 
the  sullenness  of  all  nature.  Thou  knowest  that 
his  disposition  is  never  the  most  gracious  in  the 
world;  but  now  he  is  absolutely  intolerable.  The 
days  should  be  all  sunshine  when  he  is  away  from 
thee;  because,  if  there  were  twenty  suns  in  the  un 
clouded  sky,  yet  his  most  essential  sunshine  would 
be  wanting.  Well,  there  is  one  ^<x>d  in  absence; 
it  makes  me  realise  more  adequately  how  much  I 
love  thee  —  and  what  an  infinite  portion  of  me 
thou  art.  It  makes  me  happy  even  to  yearn  and 
si^h  for  thee  as  I  do;  because  I  love  to  be  conscious 
of  our  deep,  indissoluble  union  —  and  of  the  im 
possibility  of  living  without  thee.  There  is  some 
thing  ^ood  in  me,  else  thou  couldst  not  have  be 
come  one  with  me,  thou  holy  wife.  I  shall  be 

228 


happy,  because  God  has  made  my  happiness  neces 
sary  to  that  of  one  whom  He  loves.  Thus  is  it 
that  I  reason  with  myself;  and  therefore  my  soul 
rejoices  to  feel  the  intermingling  of  our  beings, 
even  when  it  is  felt  in  this  longing  desire  tor  thee. 

Dearest,  amongst  my  other  reasons  for  wishing 
*•(•>  be  in  Boston,  wouUlst  thou  believe  that  I  am 
rager  to  behold  thy  alabaster  vase-  -and  the  little 
flower-vase,  and  thy  two  precious  pictures?  Even 
so  it  is.  Thou,  who  ;;rt  the.  loadstone  of  my  soul, 
hast  magnetised  them,  therefore  the)'  attract  me. 

I  met  Frederic-  Howes  last  evening,  and  prom 
ised  to  go  there  to-night;  although  he  seemed  to 
think  that  Miss  Burley  will  be  in  Boston.  Per 
haps  thou  wilt  see  her  there.  I  wonder  if  she  will 
not  come  and  settle  with  us  in  Mr.  Ripley's  Uto 
pia.  And  this  reminds  me  to  ask  whether  thou 
hast  drawn  those  caricatures— especially,  the  one 
of  thy  husband,  staggering,  and  putting,  and  toil 
ing  onward  to  the  gate  of  the  farm,  burthened 
with  the  unsaleable  remnant  of  Grandfather's 
Chair.  Dear  me,  what  a  ponderous,  leaden  load 
it  will  be! 

Dearest"  I  am  utterly  ashamed  of  my  hand 
writing.  I  wonder  how  thou  canst  anywise  toler 
ate  what  is  so  ungraceful,  being  thyself  all  grace. 
But  I  think  I  seldom  write  so  shamefully  as  in  this 

229 


epistle.  It  is  a  toil  and  torment  to  write  upon 
this  sheet  of  paper;  for  it  seems  to  be  greasy,  and 
feels  very  unpleasantly  to  the  pen.  Moreover 
the  }>en  itself  is  very  culpable.  Yet  thou  wouldst 
make  the  fairest,  del  ica  test  strokes  upon  the  same 
paper,  with  the  same  pen.  Thou  art  beautiful 
throughout,  even  to  the  minutest  thing. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 
Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Boston,  Mass. 


230 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


Salem,  Jany.   I  2th,  1841 

Infinitely  clearest,  I  went  to  the  post  office  yes 
terday,  after  dinner,  and  inquiring  for  a  letter. 
thy  "visible  silence"  was  put  into  my  hands. 
Canst  thou  remotely  imagine  how  glad  T  was? 
Hast  thou  also  been  gladdened  by  an  uncouth 
scribbling,  which  thy  husband  dispatched  to  thee 
on  Monday?  Oh,  belovedest,  no  words  can  tell 
how  thirsty  my  spirit  is  tor  thine!  Surely  I  was 
very  reprehensible  to  conceive  the  idea  of  spend 
ing  a  whole  week  and  more  away  from  thee.  Why 
didst  thou  not  scold  me?  and  go  with  me  wherever 
I  went?  Without  thee,  I  have  but  the  semblance 
of  lite.  All  the  world  hereabouts  seems  dull  and 
drowsy  —  a  vision,  but  without  any  spiritual  ity- 
and  I,  likewise  an  unspiritual  shadow,  struggle 
vainly  to  catch  hold  of  something  real.  Thou 
art  my  reality;  and  nothing  else  is  real  for  me,  un 
less  thou  give  it  that  golden  quality  by  thy  touch. 
Dearest,  how  earnest  thou  by  the  headache? 
Thou  shouldst  have  dreamed  of  thy  husband's 

231 


breast,  instead  of  that  Arabian  execution;  and 
then  thou  wouldst  have  awaked  with  a  very  de 
licious  thrill  in  thy  heart,  and  no  pain  in  thy  head. 
And  what  wilt  thou  do  to-day,  persecuted  little 
Dove,  when  thy  abiding-place  will  be  a  Babel  of 
talkers?  Would  that  Miss  Margaret  Fuller 
might  lose  her  tongue!  — or  my  Dove  her  ears,  and 
so  be  left  wholly  to  her  husband's  golden  silence! 
Dearest  wife,  I  truly  think  that  we  could  dispense 
with  audible  speech,  and  yet  never  feel  the  want 
of  an  interpreter  between  our  spirits.  We  have 
soared  into  a  region  where  we  talk  together  in  a 
language  that  can  have  no  earthly  echo.  Articu 
late  words  are  a  harsh  clamor  and  dissonance. 
When  man  arrives  at  his  highest  perfection,  he 
will  again  be  dumb!  — for  I  suppose  he  was  dumb 
at  the  Creation,  and  must  perform  an  entire  circle 
in  order  to  return  to  that  blessed  state.  Cousin 
Christopher,  by  thy  account,  seems  to  be  of  the 
same  opinion,  and  is  gradually  learning  to  talk 
without  the  use  of  his  voice. 

Jany.  i  fth.  Friday.  — Oh,  belovedest,  what  a 
weary  week  is  this!  Never  did  I  experience  the 
like.  I  went  to  bed  last  night,  positively  dismal 
and  comfortless.  Wilt  thou  know  thy  husband's 
face,  when  we  meet  again?  Art  thou  much 
changed  by  the  flight  of  years,  my  poor  little 
wife?  Is  thy  hair  turned  gray?  Dost  thou  wear 

232 


a  day-cap,  as  well  as  a  night  cap?  How  long 
since  didst  thou  begin  to  use  spectacles?  Perhaps 
thou  wilt  not  like  to  have  me  see  thee.  now  that 
Time  has  done  his  worst  to  mar  tin  beaut)  ;  but 
teai  thou  not,  sweetest  Dove,  for  what  I  have 
loved  and  admired  in  thee  is  eternal.  I  shall  look 
through  the  envious  mist  of  age,  and  discern  thy 
immortal  grace  as  perfectly  as  in  the  light  of  Par 
adise.  As  for  thy  husband,  he  is  grown  quite 
bald  and  gray,  and  has  very  deep  wrinkles  across 
his  brow,  and  crowsfeet  and  furrows  all  over  his 
face.  His  eyesight  fails  him,  so  that  he  can  only 
read  the  largest  print  in  the  broadest  day-light; 
but  it  is  a  singular  circumstance,  that  he  makes 
out  to  decypher  the  pygmy  characters  of  thy  epis 
tles,  even  by  the  faintest  twilight.  The  secret  is, 
that  the}  are  characters  of  light  to  him,  so  that  he 
could  doubtless  read  them  in  midnight  darkness. 
Art  thou  not  glad,  belovedest,  that  thou  wast  or 
dained  to  be  a  heavenly  light  to  thy  husband, 
amid  the  dreary  twilight  of  age? 

Grandfather  is  very  anxious  to  know  what  lias 
become  of  his  chair,  and  the  Famous  Old  People 
who  sat  .in  it.  I  tell  him  that  it  will  probably 
arrive  in  the  course  of  to-day;  and  that  he  need 
not  be  so  impatient;  for  the  public  will  be  very 
well  content  to  wait,  even  were  it  till  Doomsday. 
He  acquiesces,  but  scolds,  nevertheless. 

233 


I  saw  th>  cousin  Man  Tappan  yesterday,  and 
felt  the  better  for  it,  because  she  is  connected  with 
thee  in  my  mind.  Dearest,  I  love  thee  very 
much!  !  !  !  Art  thou  not  astonished?  I  wish 
to  ask  thee  a  question,  but  will  reserve  it  tor  the 
extreme  end  of  this  letter. 

I  trust  that  thou  art  quite,  well,  belovedest. 
That  headache  took  a  very  unfair  advantage,  in 
attacking  thee  while  thou  wast  away  from  thy 
husband.  It  is  his  province  to  guard  thee  both 
from  head-ache  and  heart-ache;  and  thou  per- 
formest  the  same  blessed  office  for  him,  so  far  as 
regards  the  heart-ache  — as  to  the  head-ache,  he 
knows  it  not,  probably  because  his  head  is  like  a 
block  of  wood. 

Now  good-bye,  dearest,  sweetest,  loveliest,  holi 
est,  truest,  suitablest  little  wife.  I  worship  thee. 
Thou  art  my  type  of  womanly  perfection.  Thou 
keepest  my  heart  pure,  and  elevatest  me  above  the 
world.  Thou  enablest  me  to  interpret  the  riddle 
of  life,  and  ft  Host  me  with  faith  in  the  unseen 
and  better  land,  because  thou  leadest  me  thither 
continually,  (rod  bless  thee  forever. 

Dost  thou  love  me? 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Boston,  Mass. 

234 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


AW/7//,  Jany.  27th,  1841  —  V2  past  2  P.M. 

Very  dearest,  what  a  dismal  sky  is  this  that 
hangs  over  us!  Thy  husband  doth  but  halt"  live 
to-day  —  his  soul  lies  asleep,  or  rather  torpid.  As 
for  thee.  thou  hast  been  prating  at  a  great  rate, 
and  has  spoken  many  wonderful  truths  in  to-day's 
conversation. 

Belovedest,  thou  wast  very  sweet  and  lovely  in 
our  walk  yesterday  morning;  and  it  gladdens  me 
much  that  Providence  brought  us  together.  Dost 
thou  not  think  that  there  is  always  some  espeeial 
blessing  granted  us,  when  we  are  to  be  divided  for 
any  length  of  time?  Thou  rememberest  what  a 
blissful  evening  came  down  from  Heaven  to  us,  be- 
tore  our  last  separation  ;  insomuch  that  our  hearts 
glowed  with  its  influence,  all  through  the  ensuing 
week.  And  yesterday  there  came  a  heavenly 
morning,  and  thou  earnest  with  it  like  a  rosy  vis 
ion,  which  still  lingers  with  me,  and  will  not  quite 


fade  away,  till  it  be  time  for  it  to  brighten  into 
reality.  Surely,  thou  art  beloved  of  Heaven,  and 
all  these  blessings  are  vouchsafed  tor  thy  sake;  for 
I  do  not  remember  that  such  things  used  to  happen 
to  me,  while  1  was  a  solitary  sinner.  Thou  bring- 
est  a  rich  portion  to  thy  husband,  dearest  —  even 
the  blessing  of  thy  Heavenly  Father. 

Whenever  I  return  to  Salem,  I  feel  how  dark 
my  life  would  be.  without  the  light  that  thou 
shedst  upon  it  —  how  cold,  without  the  warmth  of 
thy  love.  Sitting  in  this  chamber,  where  my 
youth  wasted  itself  in  vain,  I  can  partly  estimate 
the  change  that  has  been  wrought.  It  seems  as  if 
the  better  part  of  me  had  been  born,  since  then. 
I  had  walked  those  many  years  in  darkness,  and 
might  so  have  walked  through  life,  with  only  a 
cl.v?n.i/  ^  ai^n  fhat  tl  're  wns  nnv  lijrht  in  the  uni 
verse,  it  thou  hadst  not  kissed  mine  eye-lids,  and 
given  me  to  see.  Thou,  belovedest,  hast  al\va\s 
been  positively  happy.  Not  so  thy  husband- 
he  has  only  been  not  miserable.  Then  which 
of  us  has  gained  the  most?  Thy  husband, 
assuredly. 

When  a  beam  of  heavenly  sunshine  incorpor 
ates  itself  with  a  dark  cloud,  is  not  the  cloud  bene- 
fitted  more  than  the  sunshine?  What  a  happv 
image  is  this!  —  my  soul  is  the  cloud,  and  thine  the 

236 


Minshinr- -hut   a   gentler,    s\\ceter   sunshine   than 
ever  melted  into  any  other  cloud. 

Dearest  wife,  nothing  at  all  has  happened  to 
me,  since  T  left  thee.  It  pir///les  me  to  conceive 
how  thou  meetest  with  so  many  more  events  than 
thy  husband.  Thou  wilt  have  a  volume  to  tell 
me,  when  we  meet,  and  wilt  pour  thy  beloved 
voice  into  mine  ears,  in  a  stream  of  two  hours' 
long.  At  length  thou  wilt  pause,  and  say  —  "But 
what  has  /In'  life  been?"  -and  then  will  thy  stu 
pid  husband  look  back  upon  what  he  calls  his  life, 
tor  three  or  tour  days  past,  and  behold  a  blank! 
Thou  livest  ten  times  as  much  |  as  |  lie;  because 
thy  spirit  takes  so  much  more  note  of  things. 

1  met  our  friend  Mr.  Howes  in  the1  street,  yes 
terday,  and  held  a  brief  confabulation.  He  did 
not  inquire  how  my  wife's  health  is.  Was  not 
this  a  sin  against  etiquette?  Dearest,  thy  hus 
band's  stupid  book  seems  to  meet  more  approba 
tion  here,  than  the  former  volume  did  —  though 
tluit  was  greeted  more*  favorably  than  it  deserved. 
There  is  a  superfluity  of  newspaper  putf>  here,  and 
a  deficiency  in  Boston,  where  they  are  much 
needed.  I  ought  to  love  Salem  better  than  I  do; 
for  the  people  have  always  had  a  pretty  generous 
faith  in  me,  ever  since  they  knew  me  at  all.  I 
fear  I  must  be  undeserving  of  their  praise,  else  1 

237 


should  never  ^et  it..     \Vhat  an  ungrateful  IMOCK- 
head  thy  husband  is! 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 

Boston,  Mass. 


238 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


54  Pinckncy  St.,  12  o'clock  A.  M.  Monday  [1841] 


I  cannot  come  (o  thee  this  evening,  because  my 
friend  Bridge  is  in  town,  who.n  I  h  mii\  haw  .H  v  *i 
for  years  past.  Alas!  I  know  not  whether  I  am 
a  very  faithful  friend  to  him;  for  I  cannot  rejoice 
that  he  is  here,  since  it  will  keep  me  from  my 
Dove.  Thou  art  my  only  reality  —  all  other  peo 
ple  are  but  shadows  to  me:  all  events  and  actions, 
in  which  thou  dost  not  mingle,  are  but  dreams. 

Do  thou  be  pxul.  dearest  love,  and  when  I 
come,  tomorrow  ni^ht,  let  me  rind  thee  magnifi 
cent.  Thou  didst  make  me  very  happy,  yesterday 
forenoon—  thou  wast  a  south-west  wind—  or  the 
sweetest  and  wholesomest  wind  that  blows,  which 
ever  it  ma}'  be.  I  love  thee  more  than  I  can  esti- 

230 


mate;  and  last  ni^ht  I  dreamed  of  thee.     I  know 
not  exactly  what;  hut  we  were  happy. 
God  bless  thee. 

Thine  ownest  husband, 

THEODORE  DE  L'AuBKpiKF.. 

A  Madame, 

Madame  Sophie  Amelie  de  L'Aubepine, 
Rue  d'Ouest, 
a  Boston. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

West-street, 

Boston. 


240 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


54  Pinckney  St.,  March  12th,  —  Sunday  [1841] 
My  Life. 

I  have  conic  hark  to  f  lire  !  Thy  heart  gives 
thee  no  warning  of  mv  presence  ;  yet  I  am  here- 
embracing  thec  with  ;ill  the  might  of  my  soul. 
Ah.  forgetful  Dove!  flow  is  it  that  thou  hast 
had  no  spiritual  intelligence  of  my  advent?  I 
am  >ure  that  it  yearnings  and  strivings  could  have 
brought  my  spirit  into  communion  with  thine. 
thou  wouldst  have  felt  me  within  thy  bosom. 

Thou  truest-Heart,  thou  art  conscious  of  me,  as 
much  as  a  heavenly  spirit  can  be,  though  the  veil 
of  mortality.  Thou  has  not  forgotten  me  for  a 
moment.  I  have  felt  thee  drawing  me  towards 
thee,  when  I  was  hundreds  of  miles  away.  The 

0 

farther  I  went,  the  more  was  I  conscious  of  both 
our  loves.  I  cannot  write  how  much  I  love  thee, 
and  what  deepest  trust  I  have  in  thee. 

Dearest,  expect  me  at  six  o'clock  this  afternoon. 
I  have  not  the  watch,  as  thou  knowest,  and  so  it 

241 


may  be  a  few  moments  before  or  after  six.  Oh,  I 
need  thee  this  very,  very  moment  — my  heart 
throbs,  and  so  does  my  hand,  as  thou  mayst  see 
by  this  scribble.  God  bless  thee!  I  am  very 
well. 

THINE  OWNEST  HUSBAND. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

1 3  West-street, 

Boston. 


242 


TO  MISS  PEABODY 


,  March  18^,  1841 
Dearest  wife,  here  is  thy  poor  husband,  endur 
ing  his  banishment  as  best  he  may.      Methinks  all 
enornion^  sinners  should  be  sent  on  pilgrimage  to 
Salem,  and  compelled  to  spend  a  length  of  time 
there,  proportioned  to  the  enormity  of  their  of 
fenses.      Such  a  punishment  would  he  suited  to 
sinners  that  do  not  quite  deserve  hanging,  yet  are 
too  aggravated  for  the  States-Prison.     Oh,   thy 
naughty    husband!      If    it   be   a   punishment,    he 
well  deserves  to  suffer  a  life-long  infliction  of  it, 
were   it  only   for  slandering  his  native   town   so 
vilely.      Thou    must    scold    him    well.      But,    be- 
lovedest,  any  place  is  strange  and  irksome  to  me. 
where  thou  art  not;  and  where  thou  art,  any  place 
will  be  home.      Here  I  have  made  a  great  blot,  as 
thou  seest;  but,  sweetest,  there  is,  at  this  moment, 
a  |x>rtrait  of  myself  in  the  mirror  of  that  inksjKrt. 
Is  not  that  queer  to  think  of?     When  it  reaches 
fhee,   it  will  lie  nothing  but  a  dull   black  spot; 

243 


,  ! 


but  now,  whrn  1  brrut  over  u,  ::i< 
myself,  as  at  the  bottom  of  a  pool.  Thou  must 
not  kiss  the  blot,  tor  the  sake  of  the  image  which 
it  now  reflects:  though,  if  thon  shouldst.  it  will  be 
a  talisman  to  call  me  back  thither  again. 

Thy  husband  writes  thee  nonsense,  as  his  cus 
tom  is.  I  wonder  how  thon  manifest  to  retain 
any  respect  for  him.  Trust  me,  he  is  not  worthy 
of  thee  —  not  worth)  to  kiss  the  sole  of  thy  shoe. 
For  the  future,  thou  perfectest  Dove,  let  thy 
greatest  condescension  towards  him,  be  merely  an 
extension  of  the  tip  of  thy  forefinger,  or  of  thy 
delicate  little  foot  in  its  stocking.  Nor  let  him 
dare  vo  touch  it  without  kneeling— which  he  will 
be  very  ready  to  do.  because  he  devoutly  worships 
thee:  which  is  the  only  tiling  that  can  be  said  in 
his  favor.  But,  think  of  his  arrogance!  At  this 
very  moment.— 

March  igth.  Forenoon.  — Dearest  soul,  thou 
hast  irrecoverably  lost  the  conclusion  of  this  sen 
tence:  for  I  was  interrupted  by  a  visitor,  and  have 
now  forgotten  what  1  meant  to  say.  No  matter; 
thou  wilt  not  care  for  the  loss;  for,  now  I  think  of 
it,  it  does  not  please  thee  to  hear  thy  husband 
spoken  slightingly  of.  Well,  then  thou  shouldst 
not  have  married  such  a  vulnerable  person.  But, 
to  thy  comfort  be  it  said,  some  people  have  a  much 

244 


more  exalted  opinion  of  him  than  I  have.  The 
Hcv.  Mr.  (linnet  delivered  a  lecture  at  the  I  A  - 
ceum  here,  the  either  evening,  in.  which  he  intro 
duced  an  enormous  eulogium  on  whom  dost  thou 
think"^  Why,  on  thy  respectable  husband! 
Thereujxw  all  the  audience  gave  a  loud  hiss. 
Now  is  mv  mild  little  Dove  exceedingly  enraged, 
and  will  plot  some  mischief  and  all-involving 
calamity  against  the  Salem  people.  Well,  be- 
lovedest,  the*}  did  not  actually  hiss  at  the  praises 
bestowed  on  thy  husband— the  more  fools  they! 

Owncst  wile,  what  dost  thou  think  I  received, 
just  before  I  re-commenced  this  scribble?  Thy 
letter!  Pearest.  1  felt  as  thou  didst  about  our 
meeting,  at  Mrs.  Hillard's.  It  is  an  inexpressible 
torment.  Thy  letter  is  very  sweet  and  beautiful - 
an  expression  of  thyself.  But  1  do  trust  thou 
hast  given  Mr.  Riplev  a  downright  scolding  for 
doubting  cither  my  will  or  ability  to  work.  He 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  to  try  to  take 
away  the  good  name  of  a  laboring  man,  who  must 
c.un  !ti ;  '  re*"1  (and  ?'>y  bread  fo<>^  by  fhe  ^weit 
<>f  his  brow. 

Sweetest,  I  have  some  business  up  in  town;  and 
so  muSt  close  this  letter  — which  has  been  written 
in  a  great  hurry,  and  is  not  rit  to  be  sent  thee.  Say 
what  thou  wilt,  thy  husband  is  not  a  gcxxl  letter- 

24? 


writer;  he  nrvrr  write-,  unless  compelled  b\  art  in 
ternal  or  external  necessity;  and  mo<t  glad  would 
lie  be  to  think  that  there  would  never,  henceforth, 
he  occasion  tor  his  addressing  a  letter  to  thee. 
For  would  not  that  imply  that  thou  wouldst  al 
ways  hereafter  he  close  to  his  bosom? 

Dearest  love,  expect  me  Monday  evening. 
Didst  thou  expect  me  sooner V  It  may  not  be: 
but  if  longing  desires  could  bear  me  to  thee,  thou 
wouldst  straightway  behold  my  shape  in  the  great 
easy  chair,  (rod  bless  thee,  thou  sinless  Eve  — 
thou  dearest,  sweetest,  purest,  perfectest  wife. 


THINF  OWNFST. 


Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

Care  of  Dr.  N.  Peabody, 
Boston,  Mass. 


246 


JO  MISS  PEABOD\ 


Pinckney  St.,  April  4^,  [1841] 
['(TV  d cares t<*e*t< 

I  have  hitherto  delayed  to  send  these  stories,  be 
cause  Howes'  Masquerade  was  destroyed  by  the 
•printers:  and  T  have  been  in  hopes  to  procure  it 
elsewhere.  But  my  own  copy  of  the  Mapr/.inc. 
in  Salem,  is  likewise  lost;  so  that  I  must  buy  the 
Boston  Book  and  request  Mary's  acceptance  of  it. 

Belovedest.  how  dost  thou  do  this  morning  T 
am  verv  well;  and  surely  Heaven  is  one  with 
*>arth,  this  beautiful  day.  I  met  Miss  Burley  in 
the  street,  yesterday,  and  her  face  seemed  actually 
to  beam  and  radiate  with  kindness  and  goodness: 
insomuch  that  my  own  face  involuntarily  bright 
ens,  whenever  I  think  of  her.  T  thought  she 
looked  really  beautiful. 

Oh,  dearest,  how  T  wish  to  see  thee !  I  would 
thou  hadst  my  miniature  to  wear  in  thy  bosom; 
and  then  I  should  feel  sure  that  now  and  then 
thou  wouldst  think  of  me— of  which  now,  thou 

247 


art  aware,  there  can  he  no  certainty.  Sweetest.  1 
feel  that  1  shall  need  great  comfort  from  thee. 
when  the  time  of  my  journey  to  the  far  wilderness 
actually  comes.  But  we  will  he  hopeful — thou 
shalt  fill  thy  husband  with  thy  hopefulness,  and 
so  his  toil  shall  seem  light,  and  he  shall  sing 
(though  I  fear  it  would  he  a  most  unlovely  sort  of 
screech)  as  he  drives  the  plough. 

Now,  belovedest,  good-bye.  My  visit  to  Salem 
will  be  so  brief,  that  a  letter  would  hardly  reach 
thee,  before  I  myself  shall  return;  so  it  will  not  be 
best  for  me  to  write.  God  bless  thee  and  keep 
thee;  which  he  will  do  without  my  prayers,  be 
cause  the  good  and  pure,  of  which  class  my  Dove 
is  the  best  and  purest,  always  dwell  within 
the  walls  of  Heaven.  I  am  in  great  haste,  most 
beloved;  so,  embracing  thee, 

I  remain  thy  lovingest  husband, 

NATH.  HAWTHORNE. 

Miss  Sophia  A.  Peabody, 

1 3  West  street, 

Boston. 


248 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO—*      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  C42-3405 

1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  the  books  to  the  Circulation  D«sK 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


REC.  CIR.      UU I   1  I  198 ) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1  783  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

T>r  California 


®$ 


FORM  NU.  UU6,  4um,  J/  /  o 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


